Packing lessons.

Today was a day full of tears. Tears of joy, tears of nostalgia, tears of brokenness, tears of healing and tears of anguish- tears from a mix of events through the day.

I will write about the first tears which welled up behind my eyes. But first, WARNING: This post may be offensive to some.

Have you ever felt that epiphanous sense of revelation before in your life? Suddenly you feel like your blind eyes can see light, then movement, then colour and detail? Today, I felt like the curtain which hid my eyes before were torn open, allowing the sharp light from the honest sunshine to pierce the windows opening right into my soul.

I was just packing clothes for the kids in Africa according to their wishlist. Before my birthday celebration, I had asked for donations. To my joy and relief, a tall mound of items formed an impressive stack at the corner of the function room. Many were heavy, bulky and full of toys, clothes and stationary. I knew this would make the children crazy with glee, and was grateful for the gifts.

Today, as I packed, and sifted through the pile, I couldn’t help but be gripped by the stark contrast between some of the items. In one bag, was a stash of brand-new stationary- decorated with Disney characters and the likes of Ratatouille; in another, were clothes which were yellowed with age. In one bag, was a collection of brand-new toys and Laura Ashley clothes; in another, were a stack of towels with frayed edges and faded prints.

I am only allowed 20-25kilos up the plane. What should I bring? As I sifted through the items, I became saddened to see some of them. Frayed edges, yellowed whites and clothes with the hundred-time-wash look gripped me. Should I bring them or not? Where should I draw the cut-off line with regards to the usability of the items donated? How poor were these children and would these clothes be appropriate?

All these questions flooded my mind and my brain neurons went firing like crazy trying to decide. Little did I know, that a black curtain had hung over my eyes like a dark cloud. They were the wrong questions to ask, and they boggled my mind until a fresh revelation gripped me.

A special friend had called from overseas and we were talking about children in the mission field and the common practice of adoption because so many of them were abandoned and in dire need of love, care and a family. It was then that my eyes became unveiled and I became overwhelmed by the sight before me. What would I dress my children in, became the question. And as that became the guiding principle to my sifting, I saw how my choices became radically different. That disturbed me, and made the tears well up behind my eyes.

I’ve always thought about adopting kids and looking after children in an orphanage setting. Like, seriously. And as I saw those children through the eyes of a parent, my heart overflowed with love for them, with joy for them at the wonderful blessings they were about to be given, and also with sadness and wretchedness at some of the clothes which were thought to be given to them. Would I dress my children in rags? Once, I donated old clothes away too. They’re still wearable. People could be reaaaallllyyy poor and in need of my OldOldOld T-shirts, I would think. And then, I saw the poor for myself. Talked to them myself. Stayed with them for a bit. And then I saw the missionaries who lived with the poor and their own children, who also wear second-hand clothes donated by others. Do we have double-standards, for ourselves and them? And can we bear see our missionary friends dressed in rags if we can bear to see the poor in them? Does it somehow feel more “right” or appropriate that way?

As I step away from being a medical student and transit into the next phase of life in the working world, I find myself one step closing to my vocation of eventually doing longterm mission work someday. It gripped me to realize, that one day, I would be one of those missionary parents. It gripped me to realize, that this day, my best friend’s mum and dad and missionary parents. So this was what she meant when she said her clothes came in a pile.

No, I hope eventually, I won’t be making big money behind a desk (at least I hope not). If I take the missions path, I too, may be one of those parents, sifting through the second-hand loot donated by others, seeing the kind of trash that people think are worth donating to my children. (I warned you. This post could be offensive. Because when you look at those items from a different standpoint, things become vastly different.)

Once, I was taken aback when a missionary complained how anyone could donate a half-working pop-up toaster which could only toast one piece instead of two pieces. Isn’t having a half-working toaster better than no toaster at all? I thought. But I learnt, that each person has dignity, and we ought to give that to them in love. The poor deserve dignity, as do our beloved missionaries who have poured out their lives and given up their middle to upper class lifestyles to settle for something lesser in the worldly sense of things.

My best friend is a missionary’s kid. She grew up wearing second-hands, still wears second-hands. And God has been never been short to provide her with clothes in which she radiates the fullness of beauty and grace.

Two weeks ago, I had a discussion with her about adopting kids in the mission field. It must be hard, mustn’t it? Especially if one has kids of one’s own to care for as well. I have seen missionaries pricked with guilt because of how their children get better hand-me-downs than the hoard of children they look after at an orphanage. I know this will draw flak, but I’ve considered not having my own children because I find it impossible for me to treat my own child and an abandoned orphan equally.

Either way, do they deserve our second-best? Our faded, torn and yellowed clothes? I wondered, how our giving would look like had we known our items would be donated to a friend in need, a friend who had perhaps given up his everything to be with the poor. Now that I have more friends from middle-to-upper class backgrounds who became missionaries in developing countries, this question becomes far more real. Surely we don’t expect him to live at a far higher standard than the people he serves in his community. I wondered, how would our giving look like had we been on the other side.

So I found a pair of trousers which I could fit into and put them on.

I then looked at the pile of clothes and wondered which were those that I could imagine my own kids in. Oooh, this is nice. Wow, this is so new and pretty. Ah, this looks worn but it’s cool. And this?? It’s a… rag. I use the words “my own kid” loosely because to me, any child under my care is “my own kid”, be they from Sunday school or a Home or my flesh and blood. It whittled down to just a little pile. From a mountain, just a hill appeared, just enough for my weight limit of 25kg. Perfect.

It was then I had the revelation, that the way God uses His eyes to see, is vastly different from how we use our eyes to see. It was my friend over the phone then who told me, “You know, in God’s family, adoption is natural. You, me, we’re all adopted.”

And then I realized, that just like how God gave me the best of what He had, I too, should give the best of what I have to those adopted children. No lost buttons, pants which have lost their elastic bands around the waist, or white shirts speckled with moth-eaten yellow stains. Though we are adopted, God treats us like His own. He gives us His BEST.

At lunch today, I met up with a lady from church who often mentors me like a god-mum. She passed me a huge shopping bag with BRANDNEW dresses and blouses made of silk and expensive cotton, some embroidered and tailored specially in Shanghai and overseas. “All yours, Wai Jia. Bring them home. You just pick and choose whatever you like and whatever fits you and you can return me the rest.” I was speechless. Just a few days ago, I wondered how things would be if I went on a shopping fast, just to see how God would provide for me for a season, how it would be like to lean on His provision.

They were gorgeous. But till now, I dare not try them on. After all, what occasion would I wear them to?

She gave me the best because she loved me, even though I’m not her “very own”.

God gives us the best because He loves us.

So, how much do we love the poor?

Like our very own? How much do we love our neighbour as ourselves?

How does the love we give look like, from the other side?

And so, as I took off those slacks, my tears fell and I continued, packing.