Scrolls

Went to see the Dead Sea Scroll Exhibition in Singapore. It was very, very, good trip.

WE went to see the scrolls on the second day. It was held in a big museum-like building near the parliament. The exhibition had three rooms, one containing scrolls, one containing books, and one with a lot of biographies about people. The people and book rooms had lots and lots of old bibles, sheets of information and copies of the books and lives of Wycliffe, Tyndale, Bunyan, and Luther (not in that order!). They displayed centuries-old copies of the King James Bible, Geneva bible, Spanish and German manuscripts, and even one of the first-printing editions of "Pilgrim's Progress." I kept snapping pictures and pictures and pictures. It was such an odd, interesting feel to be so near such old things, handed down from one generation to another.

But the scrolls were the most eye-opening. Just four little fragments of paper (only a few pieces were released to exhibition), very old, weather-stained, and hard to perceive until you looked very closely. And when i peered through the glass, something flashed in my mind. Some old Jewish scholar, a rabbi or Pharisee, perhaps, squinting in the evening light to meticulously scribe a letter into a word.

Line by line, as each drop of precious ink was exactly meted out for each character. Each sentence unmarred with any grammatical or contradictory errors. What thoughts went through this poor rabbi's mind as he spent such time and energy into copying out the sacred Word of God.

How tired he must have been, and then, to think that the work of this weary scholar was to be smashed apart by Roman swords! To think, that, one little fragment from this entire piece would itself a spectacle of wonder to the world. To think, that one man's efforts to preserve the law would end up giving evidence pointing to its, powerful, uncorrupted, message. To think of all the people who had worked on this bit of ink and paper, not realizing what this parchment would do to ring down eternity? The skinner of the goat, the scholar who wrote it, the ink-maker, the editing priest, the scholars-in-training who may have read it -how could they have known?

It is interesting, really, to think how much difference one person's work can do.

The Value of Things

How much would you pay
For a Dream?

A good Dream.

What would you give for
The most beautiful music on Earth?

Would trade a boat to hear
The Wonder
Of
Whale-song?

Or tangible cash,
For insights on what
Intangible
Wind is?

Or a man-made
Gadget,
To understand the most deep of emotions?

Or a day from your Life,
For a chance to turn back the Clock?

Or anything at all,
To make up for some wrong
You did?

Then what about, another choice:
How much must we pay for an eternity
With the greatest of Kings
As a father?

Then what
Would
You
Say,
If that
Gift
Was Paid
For
By
Some
Person
Already?

And all you had to do was say
Yes?

Tell Me, please

Oh Tell me, please, of the wonders of Your palace. Tell me all about the gates of pearl you made, and the streets of yellow metal. And the places that await all those for now and forever that will be saved, Oh Lord, please tell me of your glory, and how the Son will shine over your kingdom brighter than our sun, and all the wonders of your kingdom that await me.

Oh Lord, though I probably never understand, would You tell me, about why You came down to bring me up here, when I don't deserve any of the riches of your courts? Why is it you love me so? Surely we, corrupted by our own choice, were not so important as for the God of Eternity to lavish such blessing on mortal beings. Surely it was not worth it. Of such questions, I know not the answer, but I am willing to trust You, Ancient of Days, and forever be thankful and content.

Stories from Grandma

I was at my Grandparent's house (on my Mom's side). I was on the garden swing, staring out into the pretty, neat, impeccably maintained green sanctuary that was my Grand-mother's domain. I was listening to my MP3 when she came out of the house (she had been resting inside before). I greeted her. We talked for a little, while, and she went on to her gardening. i followed her, just for the fun of spending time with an ancient

She and I had finished pulling small weeds off a particular spot of green grass, when we both settled down on the swing again. It was her idea, actually. "So peaceful," she remarked. I nodded my head.

Then I remembered something I had always wanted to ask her. "Poh-Poh?" I asked, "Could you -tell me about how it was like when you were young?" It was a bit awkward at first. I've always loved old stories and tales from my elders. It's always felt like a retelling of family history and secrets, a memory of days gone by.

She paused for a moment, then nodded. She started. She talked about her house in Seremban, how her loving Grandfather had bought that house. She talked about her family, how her mother had so lovingly cared for her and siblings, about the times she worked in Robinson's, and her brothers' trip to China to remeet older relatives. There was so much emotion in her words, a undertone of pride of her family and heritage. She talked about the Hakka association her grandfather had founded, and a number of old tales. Some were harder to understand, but I listened anyways. She talked about her education, and reminded of my duty to study hard, since I have been blessed with the opportunity.

She says that a lot, but this time, it was somewhat different. This time, I knew the background and history that made her constantly repeat that admonishment. It made that history to come alive.

Someday, I hope to gather all these tales, and write them all down. Stoires, of humor, and sorrow, and pride. Maybe I will someday. THese tales must not be forgotten. There is a loss whenever old memories are forgotten. It makes one feel less responsible, more ignorant of the weaknesses and strengths of his ancestors, and what he can do to uphold or get rid of old habits. I plan to write my family's stories down.

Maybe one, day, if I live to see my great-grandchildren, I can tell them of the day when their great-great-grandmother told me about my great-great-grandfather.

Long live history! Lng live heritage! Long live the memory of all heroic people, before, now and eventuall,y in times to come.

Questions, and Answers

I have lots of questions. Constantly brimming over. Some say it's a good thing, others say it isn't. But I do have questions. Some are pretty boring, some more reflective, some nonsensical, some silly. But sometimes it's these odd questions that help you sort out your belief,s your thoughts, your opinions, and ideas. So I'm going to brainstorm. . .


Why is the sky blue? What government system is best for China? How long is forever? Does God count infinity? How big is the universe? Why did God make pretty things? Why is the wage of sin death? Why did God bother to come down to a place like earth? How good is heaven? Exactly how bad is hell? Why does my mind ask so many questions? Who killed John F. Kennedy? Who killed Princess Diana? Was Leonardo da Vinci a Christian? What about Alexius Comnenus? How could this world have turned out if it was not for Hitler? How would it have turned out if it wasn't for Churchill? Why isn't the world better than it is? Why isn't it worse than it is? What makes teddy bears so adorable? Am I intelligent? How does my spirit look like? Does Tyatora exist? Are there worlds beyond my own? Is there any way to measure God's might, or love, or glory? How can terrorism be solved?



I'm out. I have questions, too many, it seems. Some have been answered, some haven't, some I plain don't know, some I may never know. I hope that someday, all these questions will just tumble out to someone. The Someone. I pray he will answer my questoins. Someday. Sometime. Somehow.

This is a petition, a collection. A collection of questions that I humbly ask Yahweh to help explain such deep things to my little, sometimes confused mind.


Questions. The life-blood of answers.

The Adventurer's Ten

Some light reflective thoughts on adventure and trade (you'll see what I mean!).


One silver harp for an unfinished quest,
Two gold trees for exotic a fest,
Three months by the moon for a glimpse of the sun,
Four twinkinling stars for a curse undone.
Five fleets of ships for a journey to the East,
Six blades for one fight with a terrible beast,
Seven white loaves for traveller's bread,
Eight greetings for one farewell said.
Nine rubies for one promise kept,
And Ten quests for a night well slept!

Aray, Arral, Aray, Arral,
Aray, Aray, Aray, Arral,
Count again once more!

One Persian rug for a foe to defeat,
Two chests of gold for a task to complete!
Three coffee pots for China-man's tea,
Four tulips red for a new sight to see!
Five bags of wealth for a taste of camel-flesh,
Six kettles for some good soup fresh.
Seven spears for a serpent's bite,
Eight giant wings for the gift of flight!
Nine caravels for a boat to row,
Ten arrows for a great rainbow!

Aray, Arral, Aray, Arral,
Aray, Aray, Aray, Arral,
Count again no more!

Poem on Mother'ds Day

Mater, Queen among many, fair above the fair,
Forever be remembered, the golden crown you bear.

This circlet, unseen to simple human eye,
Forever on your brow, does the ancient crown of mothers lie.

A crown of many joys, and crown of many sorrows,
Growing richer by each day, each passing of a morrow.

Heavy with experience, laden with with memory,
Light with singing laughter, so you may yet dance merrily.

With honor I behold you, though not always best expressed,
Though it does not change my love for thee, nor make it any less.

For amm my mortal days I swear, I will forget you not,
Hold me by this oath, whatever my destiny's lot.

Mater, great Queen among many, fair above the fair,
Forever I remember, the golden crown you bear.

Restaurant Haikus

Bustling Coffee Shop.
Nameless Faces, people’s lunches,
Plates, Cans, brusque busboys.

Chinese restaurant,
White rice, stewed pork, fragrant tea,
Clicking of chopsticks.

Café, bright and sunny,
Tables with chairs, tea with milk,
Al-fresco dining.

Good fast food, child’s dream,
Meat and bread in paper wrap,
Re-fried spud slices.

Long Buffet table,
Bottomless pits of tasty food,
People over-eat.

Mom’s little kitchen,
Best pies and yummy dishes.
I’m biased, too bad.



All right, I'm out of ideas.

Longing

I stand there,
on the seashore.


No soul
here.

Except for
the faint, distant,
flicker
of candlelight,
in faraway cottage.

I stand on the beach,
that straddles
limestone cliff
and blue sea.

Stars sing
overhead.
In slow, hushed
whispers.

I stand here,
and shout out,
wordlessly.

It was enough.

I was there,
collapsing on
the sand

Heart and eyes crying
None but gulls abd crabs
to hear me.

Then He came.
And touched my shoulder.
I looked up.

He offered His hand,
and helped me
pick myself

up.

I sat with Him
for awhile.
by lapping,
splashing, waves.


I didn't know
what
to say.

But I held tight,
to
His
hand.

I felt and empty
sp t
where His
upper wrist
should be.

I looked at Him,
He smiled at me.
Somberly.


The want
to scream
left me.


All else relevant,
Now irrelevant.


Then we held each other,
Yahweh, and me.

I
never
knew
why
He
did
it.

but He did.
He embraced me.

We sat
under,
over,
Moonlight.

Beach sand on our toes.
None but gulls and crabs
to hear us,


As we,
He and I,
laughed,
cried,
talked,
chatted,

and spoke in hushed tones.

In the night.

Pool Haikus

This is by far the longest haiku series I've ever done so far. It came to me, while I was swimming. I never got myself to write them down, until two weeks ago or so.

I.

Feather, winter white.
Floats into the sparkling pool,
Sails, Sails, then sinks down.

II.

Hard small turquoise Rock
Skips on the water surface.
Flies, Flies, sinks below.

III.

Yellow Paper boat,
Slides in the pool from child’s hand.

Little Titanic.

IV.

Pair of lonely floats
Drift like aimless marooners,
Over the blue water.

V.

In the manmade pool,
Over blue tiles and glass water,
Half-Submerged leaf.

VI.

The Child steps backwards,
Squares his legs, gets ready, then jumps.
Small-scale tsunami.

Tyatora II

I think I'm in a Tyatora craze.

I can't stop thinking about it, and I spend a considerable amount of time thinking about it, inventing new ideas and history. Tyatora has fascinated me, and its charm has made (and probably always will continue making) a mark on my life. I use this not as an "escape" world, but as a mirror, to reflect my thoughts, my heartcries, and my desire to express my deep admiration and wonder of Yahweh; or as the Tyatorans call Him, "Amentoris". It is, in essence, me.

I did forget, however, that there are two additional races (besides the ones I spoke of last post on Tyatora).

1. Gryphions (Tyatoran spelling of Griffins)

2. Chinchillas. Don't worry, Gryphions don't eat Chinchillas.


The Gryphions are a mountain race. Fierce and independant, the live in the gold-rich mountains of Norhtern Tyatora. This region is ruled (and ferociously guarded) by the griffin tribes, and all but a few contract-based companies and government programs are allowed to mine their gold here. Previously, prospectors and greedy giants threatened to start a Tyatoran Gold-rush, but the Gryphions drove back the gold-getters at the Battle of Vatlinclov some 500 years ago.

They, surprisingly, are herbivorous, who are fond of eating Kimboli Ferns and noodles.

The Chinchillas, are also a mountain race, but live on the fertile hillsides of Western Tyatora. They are farmers by trade, and swordsmiths. A family of Chinchillas may take four days to make a Gryphion-sized sword, slaving over this one sword, hammering, thwacking, planning, enlaying etc. When they are done, they sell this to the government for fifty thousand Corcals (Tyatoran currency). That's a lot of money, by the way. Their swords are so reputable to be good the govt. just has to have them (more or less a national ego). Their fruits are pretty sweet too.

Mom's calling, I'm out of time. Sorry about that. Hope you don't mind, readers. Oh yeah, I'll try to do Part Four of the Polar bear story soon(those things are hard to chug out).

New Year's Eve!

Ahh, it's New Year's Eve today. I look back in sweet reminisence at the year of 2008. It has been a year of new experiences, new friends, and new knowledge. It has been a good year.


Now, I end this year in thanks, to the people I owe my year to:

To my Parents and Brother -for all your dedication, teaching, forgiveness, and love.

To Aunty S.H., for your wonderful writing advice and ideas.

To BLCS and Tim- for their encouragement and steadfast friendship

To Whitle, for your chess games and friendship.

To my relatives, for their love and critique

To Jian Lin, for prompting me to start my blog.

And most of all, to my Dear Savior, for Your love, mercy, grace, and patience, as You carried me through 2008.

Twelve

I turned officially twelve last Wednesday, and this is a metaphor of what I feel:

I turn my slim spyglass to the horizon. I see the notorious Teenage Years. My Ship sways slightly as it passes through that narrow strait they call the Twelfth Birthday. Alas I hit open ocean, and, consequently, a turning point in my life. I stare into the great watery yonder, and wonder where in this vast ocean of life shall I go. I tuck my spyglass into my coat pocket and return below deck. I must ask for God's guidance on where to go.