海阔天空

i still don’t get how he is dead; in every picture and in every video and memory he is so alive, so very very alive.

i was watching old videos on facebook again. carissa and janel summoning an army of singers and filling the corridors of rc4 with christmas carols; open mics; the wondergirls singing 'nobody' with master chun at our orientation in yale with evan banging out a brilliant accompaniment on the piano; bursting into MRTs with NDP songs on singapore's 50th birthday. i am reminded of the wallets' exhilarating chandler's wife performance, mahjong cny parties, sleepovers at the common lounge. man, we were so full of life in our earlier college years. remember our weekly meetups even before college started? winning third place at our first trivia night at brewerkz? watching les mis together? there was so much love. and remember when josh was annoyed that someone stole his cup noodles and he posted on our facebook page and he came back to four cups of noodles left by classmates at his door. even in the difficult times our community worked through the issues together. these are the best days. those were the best days. one of my favourite memories is of y'all uncles dressed like absolute toots and performing 对面的女孩看过来, complete with props: a fly swatter, a harmonica, a flower. after that we all went crazy over the photo of carissa and abel holding hands when they were kids.

following your death a little over two months ago we were jolted out of our studious hermitage. we were reminded that this community is a family and we needed to stick together. we had some fun even during finals week. we studied together, senior study party. we had a steamboat at sau's, which was fun. after the elm formal, in which none of the friends i was intending to go with had ended up going, i was restless and grabbed a few friends and we all just hung out in dylan's room and had a great time just chatting. i miss us, and i will miss us. i wonder, had our community remembered to keep tight and have fun in these later years, if you would have been more in joy than in loneliness.

when you're gone

whenever i walk past the place, i always look up and imagine you falling, falling, stopped. once i counted the floors. today i remembered your mum saying that the wind carried you, that God was merciful, because you'd have landed on the concrete otherwise. sarah told me that a few days ago mannie left a flower where you died. i miss you. and i hope you are well, that a heaven exists so that it can exist for you.

天冷就回来

i push open the window.
the wind plays at my ankles, it tickles my feet
as i behold the world below.

a breath. a leap. i go
i fall, i fall, i fall
and then i soar, i soar,
flying towards the arms of my Father
my fate sealed forevermore.

my gaze transfixed on the glorious heaven, it requires strength to look away
but i steal a gaze backward, back on the once-me lying in a bush.
people are gathered over the body. they are crying, one's hand is over his mouth and my mother is wailing but i don't understand,
don't they know, can't they see, how happy i am now?
look, ma, look! look i'm soaring, my body is made new. no grazes, no cuts.
the dishevelled me you are sobbing over, the hand unnaturally twisted and the eyes rolled back,
that is not me. that you once knew, but now i am here, i am flying to the Father, ma.
I am safe now. I am loved. In this place there is freedom and joy.



Wilt thou forgive that sin where I begun,
Which was my sin, though it were done before?
Wilt thou forgive that sin, through which I run,
And do run still, though still I do deplore?
When thou hast done, thou hast not done,
For I have more.

Wilt thou forgive that sin which I have won
Others to sin, and made my sin their door?
Wilt thou forgive that sin which I did shun
A year or two, but wallow'd in, a score?
When thou hast done, thou hast not done,
For I have more.

I have a sin of fear, that when I have spun
My last thread, I shall perish on the shore;
But swear by thyself, that at my death thy Son
Shall shine as he shines now, and heretofore;
And, having done that, thou hast done;
I fear no more.

- A Hymn to God the Father, John Donne

memento mori

when i die, if you have a memory of me, would you take some time, reach into your heart to retrieve it, hold it in your hands and sit with it awhile? my wake could be in a garden, picnic mats and open mics; you could sing me a song, or recount a memory. i will permit sarah sharing about our childhood sleepovers, sumay sharing about the time i drove her around on her birthday and got us lost for two hours (and dropped her cupcakes), wei liang recalling my half-awake council camp mumbling, james telling everyone about the first time i tried to make indomie. but also, if there was a time i helped you through a thing, or provided comfort and support, or prayed with you, or sowed a good seed in you, would you remember that, too, and allow my death to renew your strength. if i sinned against you, as i have done to many, would you forgive me and cover the hurt with peace.

tuesday afternoon, i rush to scribble Psalm 23 on my notepad as we make our way to the ward. dad tells me to keep my paper, but i'm not done; they'll understand when they receive it.

"you aren't scared, seeing her like that?" her mum asks. why would i be? she smiles, slightly surprised, and nods. as i leave she is opening my letter.

that night i am scheduled to lead a worship meeting in school. once i reach back, though, i head first to the hammock. give my heart space to check itself, give it room to breathe, feed it a few hymns, re-center. it is well, it is well with my soul. at that moment something in my heart clicks. but i know that whatever awaits her is far greater than what this earth could ever hold for her.

wednesday: i wake up to the news that she was struggling to breathe, and then breathed no longer.

friday at the wake, her mum says "thank you for the psalm. it was her favourite."

joel is at the table and my family is engaging him in a conversation about - of all things - army rifles and career prospects in pharmacy. my skin crawls with impatience. as soon as there is a break in the conversation i whisper can i pray for you? an awkward silence at the table. the two of us shuffle towards the front, near the coffin. i curl up in my seat. i breathe, and i pray, at peace, holding the hand of God.

"how are you?" i ask. he pauses. "actually, i'm quite okay." he chuckles. "God has been preparing me for this. It's just that now it's a different season. First it was without the cancer, then with the cancer, and now without Joanna." we talk about our families and campus ministry (turns out he leads NUS Nav?? how did i not know this before) and about God and what it means to shine for Him. he motions to Joanna from time to time.

It's good that I'm more level-headed now, someone's got to be the rational one in the family. It used to be Joanna. Joanna was the one who brought our family close together.
I think it makes a difference when you're able to be that beacon of light for your family. See Joanna, she always made an effort to interact with the older ones. She was always talking to the aunties. And if she didn't make that effort she wouldn't be able to speak into their lives. I think you can do more as a beacon of light where you are, too.

saturday, again, a table of peanuts and smartphones and mindless chatter. jonathan takes a seat, alone, a table away. i am the first one over.

"how are you?"

he says that before the service, his mum was just busy, busy, busy rushing around and doing things. he forcibly took her away from the hall, led her down a path into the woods, and made her have her dinner there. she needed that space, he says. both joel and jonathan echo concern for their mum.

today, just before they put the coffin in the hearse, the family stands by it one more time. joanna's mum is bent over, her fingers tracing the glass, her husband struggling to hold her together.

at the viewing hall her mum is crying. someone says "it's okay, it's okay." but it isn't. it will be okay, but it is not now, and that's okay.

as we leave with hugs i give her mum psalm 91:1. he who dwells in the shelter of the Most High shall rest in the shadow of the Almighty. "Yes," she nods. "You're right. You're very good at memorizing verses eh. When I was a teenager I used to do that. It helps, you know. Comes back to you from time to time, when you don't realise. But it's okay to grieve also, because Jesus wept."

joanna

He will wipe every tear from their eyes. There will be no more death or mourning or crying or pain, for the old order of things has passed away.


may legions of angels bear you up
and carry you away to a place that is so much richer in glory, peace, joy, love, and beauty
than this world could ever offer

Professor Bate

Do you see how the little flame rushes over the wick, a sliver of blue and dancing yellow? I do not have the eloquence.

As they gave the eulogies I thought to myself, what does it mean that he is gone? Perhaps it was hard for me to comprehend because I didn't see him around much after freshman year; and every time I watch a video of him or simply picture in my mind his exclamations of wonder, his eyes gleaming in fascination, he is alive. I took a class with him, but didn't interact closely with him after that; what would be different now?

The vigil ends and I walk over to the steps, away from the people hugging and crying, and sit down with my candle. The wind is strong now; it threatens, it threatens, and the flame's dance is no longer calm and free. It is fierce. I try and shield the flame but the wind is too strong and the flame is amok and it shouts it thrashes and it's gone.

In that instance I understand.

As the sliver of smoke disappears I walk back to the circle of Class of 2017ers. There is a special peace within our circle, and President Lewis comes over to join us. Linh's flame goes out too; a gasp; she bursts into tears.

Kavya walks past me and I am reminded of why I love her name. I encountered the word in his An Anthropology of Literary Culture class. The first day I met Kavya I exclaimed "I know what that means! Kavya means song!" - well, I guess more of 'sonnet', or poetry - but Barney Bate lives in her name for me; every time I think of the name it is wrapped in beauty. 

A couple of days ago when the news broke, as I prayed for him on the train, I got this image of a lively procession, vibrant saris and blaring instruments, the atmosphere filled with much colour and life as he had, a celebratory farewell. He was a man larger than life, and his contagious energy transcends regions, transcends time; in every remembrance of him there is gratitude and joy.

On Death

I've watched and read every eulogy of the late Mr. Lee Kuan Yew that has been recorded over the past couple of days - albeit with varying degrees of attentiveness. PM Lee Hsien Loong's eulogies (at the funeral service, especially the meditation bit, and at the private cremation ceremony) were extremely poignant, but I think the most touching eulogies were by Lee Hsien Yang (particularly at the private cremation ceremony, followed by the one at the funeral service.)

I have dreamt about my death twice before. The first was when I was young; I had died in the lift of my HDB apartment, my soul floated away from my body and I watched from above as my mother cried over my lifeless body. The second time was a year back? - I dreamt that I only had two days to live, and I spent the time not rushing to meet people, but simply writing many letters. Mum came to me and said "You know what's going to happen, right?" and I simply nodded, at peace.

The annoying fact about death is that it's never just about you. I often say I don't mind dying now if I had to, but I'm often more afraid of others leaving my life. I'm not particularly close to my parents or brother, and I don't even live at home now, but I cannot imagine losing them. I'd probably be in denial for a long time, with bouts of eternally dark pits hitting my heart every now and then, throwing me into inner chaos, before I pull myself back out into denial. Not denial as in believing they're still alive, but it'd take a long time to register that I will never see them again in this lifetime, and possibly forever.

Imagine tying your soul to another's. Your lives join; you vow to live as one. He is your most intimate refuge, your pillar, the hope that covers you, heart of your heart. One day he leaves to get the week's groceries, or goes to meet an old friend. Hours tick by. The sky is dark. Then you get a call, but not from him, and never from him again, ever.

How would you react to seeing a close friend, or your partner, or your family member, lying lifeless in an emergency hospital bed? Maybe I would scream, or shut my eyes and shout angrily. I use sound to drown out reality - when the terrifying fire alarm rings, I scream and cry as loud as I can to drown out the alarm. When I'm walking somewhere dark and quiet, or when I'm haunted by a scary thought, I sing to myself. I probably would hug them and not let go. Letting go means letting go forever. As long as I can still touch their skin, hold their hand, they are still with me.

Then again, I've never been particularly sad at goodbyes, because I've never had to say goodbye forever to something close to me. My friends cried the day we stepped down from the Students' Council, the place where I found home; but I was like "hello, tomorrow we're still all going to sit by the bleachers in the morning. Goodbye is goodbye only when we let it be so." And we have photos and videos and vivid memories. More often, we let people die in our hearts before they actually die. There are just too many people to keep up with, and life goes on.

I often treat breakups like death, and they are in a way. He will never again be the him you knew. You will never again get to hold his hand, or sit with him in the same way. Those memories will always only remain memories. Soon you both become different people.

Perhaps I trivialise it. I've never known the death of a close one. A friend recently almost committed suicide, and I was one of her closest friends, and I had all the power to stop it. I hadn't paid attention to the signs - if only I had bothered to ask how she was doing, paid her a visit, and not be so caught up in my own selfish to-dos. If she had committed suicide in the end, I wouldn't know how to deal with that guilt.

Singapore's founding father, the man who turned the country from a dismal third-world state to one of the world's most prosperous nations in fifty years, died last week. I've never seen him in real life, and I'm not particularly sad about his death, and I don't agree with all he's done, but I am immensely appreciative of where he got us, and of his strength of character. A role model not just for us, but for other, bigger, more powerful nations. A few friends and I attempted to visit the Parliament House on Thursday at 4a.m., but it seemed that the whole of Singapore had that same idea, and the queue's waiting time was 10 hours - we would have to miss a few classes, and Lee Kuan Yew wouldn't have wanted that, would he? I was amused at our national, collective kiasuness. He had built that in us, too. At the same time, we didn't really need to see him - all one had to do was to wake up in their bedrooms, take the train, go to school, appreciate the safety of our streets, to pay tribute.

A friend shared this poem on her Facebook status that I thought was incredibly apt for Mr. Lee's death and Singapore:

Do not stand at my grave and weep 
I am not there; I do not sleep. 
I am a thousand winds that blow, 
I am the diamond glints on snow, 
I am the sun on ripened grain, 
I am the gentle autumn rain. 
When you awaken in the morning's hush 
I am the swift uplifting rush 
Of quiet birds in circled flight. 
I am the soft stars that shine at night. 
Do not stand at my grave and cry, 
I am not there; I did not die. 

- Mary Elizabeth Frye

If I Die

19 May, Detroit -> Toronto, plane sways from side to side as it climbs through the air 

If I die, maybe it would be on the Singapore news. Karen Ho, just turned 21, 6As, Yale-NUS pioneer, what a future she could have had ahead. The media might interview my friends, and they might describe me as a person with a beautiful, loving heart, a heart focused on others. Maybe when my good friends hear about it they will cry, and rush to talk about what a nice person I was, in three words or fewer, to the news.

I urge you to know me beyond that. If you know me well you'd know that I wouldn't view my death as something tragic. If we were fishes, I see death as simply moving from one fish tank to another - from the realm of the world to one we cannot yet see. Another phase of life, like leaving secondary school for JC. I urge you to know me beyond my character traits. Understand my thoughts, my worldviews and philosophies; why I came to my conclusions about life and God; how I hurt and reconcile. Because my writing and thought processes are immortal. And you'll see that there's no cause to cry at all.