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Monday, August 18, 2014

TML

That stands for too many lessons. Lessons learned within one week, that is.

Blessed are the poor in spirit, for theirs is the kingdom of Heaven.
- Matthew 5:3

On Saturday, we had our youth leadership meeting, and during the meeting, we were told to read chapters five to seven in the book of Matthew. If you found that familiar, it's probably because those two chapters spell the entirety of the Sermon on the Mount. And if you thought the verse I quoted above was a lot more familiar, you might be right - that's the first line of the Beatitudes.

After we had finished reading, JN shared a message on the Beatitudes, about what Jesus meant in them and who each line referred to. When the verse above was being addressed, J asked a very important question -

"Who are the poor in spirit?"

One leader voiced, "The weak." I then mentioned, "The ones who easily fall for temptation." A couple others raised their views as well, but most of them went along the same lines. Anyhow, as expected, J's reply was this -

"The poor in spirit are the humble. They are the people who realize their spirit man is weak, and that they easily fall into temptation."

But what he said next was even more profound; "But when we are poor in spirit, we realize how rich God is."

Those words resounded within my mind, and slowly sank in as my fingers diligently stamped those words onto my S Memo. But it didn't strike me in spirit.

It was yesterday afternoon when I sent a friend of mine back to her house after an eventful morning attending The Color Run in KL and having banana leaf rice for lunch. I had to send her home because a) her parents weren't around to pick her up, and b) she had held onto some of my things, such as my Statistics notes and more importantly, my lecturer's professional recommendation. I'd passed my recommendation letter to her to get him to fill it up and sign, since he was her academic advisor as well and she was working there on a Tuesday, so I wouldn't have had to come to the university at such a strange hour in the morning to sort things out, when I had to be at uni at night as well for CF. And that, in essence, was my folly.

Although I had specifically e-mailed him on the procedures of filling up the form and SIGNING THE FLAP OF THE ENVELOPE before I could seal it, he somehow didn't do it. So you might think I should have told my friend to remind him, or even write a note to ensure that he did it. Thing was, I actually did. I left a post-it note on the form with proper instructions on what to do. I Whatsapp-ed my friend to ensure that she reminded him to sign the flap of the envelope, at all costs.

Nevertheless, for some yet unknown reason, he didn't do it. And he wasn't going to be in the office for another week.

When I received the envelope from her that afternoon, I was utterly pissed. I left her house in sheer disappointment, and made my way out of the housing area in my car. When I drove out, I turned out the wrong direction, as I entered the right side of the road where I sighted a dead end. Already frustrated and unwilling to do a three-point turn, I checked if the path behind me was clear of any traffic, and reversed my car straight and all the way to the back. With the accident from a couple of weeks ago still fresh in my mind, I made sure I looked backwards to see if there were any cars before I quickly reversed as such. However, I wasn't paying attention to my side mirrors and before I knew it, I had rammed my left side mirror onto the side of someone else's vehicle.

While my mirror did not completely break off, the edges of the frame cracked, while the entire casing bungeed onto the floor. On impulse, I uttered a chain of "Oh my God"s and jumped out of my car to observe the damage I had done to that innocent little side mirror that by the way, had absolutely nothing to do with whatever I was upset about. I picked up the fallen off casing and attempted to reinstall it onto the mirror. A part of me was relieved that I managed to stick it back onto the mirror, but a larger part of me was panicking because the damage was obvious, and I knew my dad would have been absolutely disappointed in me. I then told myself in a frenzy of emotion that I had to get it fixed on that day itself, and pay it with my own money, if I were to go home with a clear conscience. My dad couldn't find out about anything, because he would have chastised me for it, BIG TIME.

I made a three-point turn and drove down the road in the opposite direction. And then I just lost it.

I had absolutely no idea where to go, and I needed help. I couldn't figure this out on my own. I decided then to park my car at the side of the road and call a youth leader I was close to. He didn't pick up. I tried a different person, this time, J N, and he managed to pick up. Still bawling, I told him everything that happened and asked him where I could get my car fixed so I didn't have to tell my dad anything. J told me it was a Sunday, and that no workshops were open at the end of the week. He also told me that the right thing to do would be to be honest with my dad, because he probably valued our relationship over a material thing such as the car, and also told me to find the owner of the vehicle and leave my number there.

I managed to calm down for a bit after that, and I drove back to the spot I had hit the vehicle. I'm not sure if it was fortunate or otherwise, but it wasn't there anymore. I made a couple of rounds to see if I could find it anywhere because I specifically remembered I had made a dent on the right corner of the back of the vehicle, but it was nowhere to be found. Left without a choice, I exited the area and headed home.

I still found it strange how I managed to retain composure on the expressway, all the way home. I had stopped crying by then.

However, the moment I went home and confronted my parents, I started crying again. I struggled through the tears to profusely apologize to them, and eventually I retreated into my room and let the tears roll until I was calm again. A couple of minutes later, a knock on the door ensued. I already knew who it was, without a doubt.

I had gotten used to seeing my mum's response towards bad news, and often the bad news entailed my involvement in a road accident. I could sense the anger and disappointment in her voice as she questioned what went on in my mind while I was driving and all that had happened. I told her everything, about how the envelope wasn't signed, how I panicked and didn't focus on my driving and even how I made that call to J N, not knowing what to do. She sternly reminded me how this had become a serious problem and that I needed to make a choice.

I had to acknowledge that I had an issue with anxiety whenever I had to deal with a circumstance and do something about it, or blame something else on the account of my failure to focus on my driving.

Fortunately, I can peacefully say I chose the former. My mum and I established that the next time some bad news came up that stirred up feelings of anxiety, I would tell myself to and literally just STOP whatever I was doing at that point and continue to instill within me the fact that I had to CALM DOWN. I will tell myself to calm down and actually take deep breaths until I am mentally stable enough to carry on with whatever I was doing, especially DRIVING.

I still couldn't stop crying though. My mum told me to pick myself up and stop crying over spilt milk, because nothing could be undone, but I was already aware of that. I knew no amount of tears could change the fact that my side mirror was scratched or that my dad might have been severely disappointed in me.

I kept crying, because I realized at that point, what, or who I was. I was POOR IN SPIRIT. And I needed God. It was that moment, when I was utterly helpless and in need of grace that I had rekindled what it had felt like when I first encountered Jesus and realized how inadept I really was at figuring myself out. I couldn't. Only God could.

Anyhow, my dad came to me not long after that and said there wasn't much damage done to the mirror. He said he could easily fix it with some glue. Being the intelligent brat I was and still am, I knew deep inside that it was a lot worse than he'd said it was, but I kept silent, because I knew I was being shown grace and that I should openly receive it. For the first time in my life, I had known what it felt like to have a father's grace shown to me, in my physical family from my earthly father. And it was AMAZING.

My dad also told me that I could tell him and mum anything and everything, even if it was something as devastating as an accident. And obviously, I complied. My parents love me regardless of the hurts that I've caused them (although I could do less damage with my car), and I need to remember that at all times. Just like the Heavenly Father's love is given and is not earned, so are my parents' love. I guess I couldn't see that for a while, but my vision is clear as ever now.

So I learned three things over the weekend:

1. I have a choice whether to react to a situation or respond to it. Some of this fear is irrational, and worrying does not add an hour to my life. Nor does it change the fact that my recommendation was left unsigned. Anyhow, I managed to contact my lecturer and I'm meeting him this Friday to settle things, so PRAISE THE LORD! :D

2. I can trust my parents no matter what because they love me, and want the best for me. And that means chastising me for the things I've done wrong, and showing mercy when necessary. But I will always know that they love me and nothing comes above that.

3. I am poor in spirit, and that's a great thing!

God is good, all the time. And all the time, God is good.

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