3a

I just visited my aunt in the hospital. I don't know if this will be the last time I'll ever see her again after I go to Thailand for 6 weeks this Tuesday, but high chances are that it is so. Her days are, medically confirmed, numbered. She told me about her dreams of seeing a yellow light in her window. About how she, in the yellow light from above, saw my uncle unable to cope with handling her wake. About how she dreamt about certain things happening to my relatives, one of which came true. Maybe the others would. But in this yellow light, she felt peaceful. It was just... Bright. There was nothing else.

For the first time in my life, I shared a eulogy to the very one who was to leave us for the time being. This 3rd uncle's family isn't the closest to our huge family, but because of her illness I was moved to visit her more. I got to know her better than all the 23 years that I barely saw her, and even better just this evening when I asked about how she became a nurse (for 20+ years). She's a very smart and capable nurse who knows exactly what the doctors are doing to her even after having left the profession for many years now.

After asking for the both of us to be excused, I wept, thanked her for being a part of my family and shared my heart, prayed for her, took a selfie with her, and hugged her before I peeled myself away. As I switched off her c-class ward bed light, it felt symbolic: this earthly light will soon go off indeed, but that yellow light — that light which we both agreed was heaven — won't cease to shine. I am still grieving, but I am glad that I had the opportunity to speak words that means more to the living than the dead.

The voice of reality and the voice of hope are tearing at me. Reality is that her days were indeed numbered — her entire body is riddled with cancer, and even her digestive system has lost the battle. Her face, says my mom, has turned a shade darker than before. This does not bode well. It is reality that she had to suffer for four years. Yet it is also hope that this wretched pain will pass. It could be a different reality that she could enjoy life for 90 years; yet it is also hope that this is a life that is one that is lived to its Full-ness. Of course the former sounds much better, humanly speaking. But both are probably two sides of the same coin in God's eyes.

Well, there -are- voices of hope that I can hear. These four years, my mom has been at the frontlines battling alongside her 3rd brother and his wife and their family; she is an amazing role model and witness for many of us. This, I find, is a priceless blessing and hope that has overflowed into my cup. Her illness has shaken even the surest of my uncles; a sordid reminder that health is not what we can fully have control of with our hands. This is the voice of hope that I hear — that God is not finished with bringing the lukewarm ones in my extended family back to realising who they are meant to -be-.

I am thankful that my exegesis class on Ruth this semester that I feel has prepared me for this. Like in Naomi's life, God recognises the voice of reality because He is God immanent; and indeed for now, the voice of reality sounds much louder and more fearsome, although God still is with me.

But in Ruth's life, the voice of hope from God transcendent brings to emptiness full-ness that overflows. So when the mourning turns to dancing, I look forward to following the voice of hope that is already echoing for eternity.