The blessing of giving

It has been a crazy week, and I am spent in every aspect, physically and emotionally. I had my semiannual cold, with fever, coughs, runny nose...the whole package. Other unpleasant things also came up, and I am, truly, tired. Those who know me well know that it takes a lot to wear me out, or at least to make me admit that I am tired.

Correction: I was tired. Not anymore.

On Wednesday, the day before my weekly program with Musicians On Call, I debated on whether to cancel it this week. The most obvious reason was that I should not go to the hospital with a cold. The last thing these folks need is to receive a gift of germs from me along with the music. Another reason for not going is that I was tired, irritable, and altogether not in the best of mood to do anything but to stay home and have a pity party with me and myself.

But I hate not doing something I had promised to do--"eat my words", as the Chinese say. More than that, I knew that pity parties never solve anything, as I have had quite a few in the past. The problems always grow bigger, the reasonable part of the brain becomes smaller, until at some point the former completely beat up the latter. The real solution--I have learned--is to turn the spotlight away from my own life and its imperfections and ask, "To whom can I be a blessing today?"

It is amazing the things God can do when we ask for something not for our sake, but for others'. I woke up yesterday refreshed, with a lovely, clear sinus. No more coughing, no more germy nastiness, I was simply ready to roll. There weren't many patients at the hospital last night, but I hope that for the few I was able to play for, their evening was made a little more pleasant. An elderly lady had "a terrible, terrible day", and the music squeezed a little smile from her. A gentleman whose daughter told the guide "good luck, he might bite your head off" when he asked whether her father would like to hear some music sat cheerfully in his wheelchair while I played for him in the hallway.

And my problems? They didn't quite go away...but they were so wimpy when I came home last night that they have been hiding in the closet since then.

Thoughts on my seventh anniversary

On August 27th, 2000, at five o'clock in the afternoon, I was taken from one life to begin another. Today marks the seventh anniversary.

I once had a dream, not long after the hemorrhage, that I was living in an ugly, gray concrete house. I was content to be in it, though there was nothing inside the house and I could not see or hear anything that was happening outside of it. One day came a storm, so strong that the four concrete walls crumbled down, and I was left without shelter. Desperate and homeless, I began a journey to find my real home. The journey was long and difficult. I could not see more than a few inches before me, and I was all alone. Each step was heavier than the last, and I was tired physically and emotionally. At times I thought of my old concrete house, "If only the storm didn't bring it down!" But it did. Deep down in me I knew it wasn't my real home anyway.

Just as I was about to collapse from exhaustion, I arrived. Before me was the most breathtakingly scenery, too beautiful for human imagination. It was a city of golden luminescence: everything was golden, including the sky and the path beneath my feet. On the distant horizon, a castle of gold stood majestically. Tears of joy poured down like rain, washing away all the sorrows, disappointments and doubts that clung on me during the journey. I started running, faster than I have ever ran, my feet felt as light as clouds. "I am home! I am finally home!"

Days before this seventh anniversary, I thought of the possibility that I would finally be "home"--as in the dream--when I wake up this morning. Perhaps I would finally be completely freed from this bodily prison, and that I can, from now on, run with feet of cloud. I can stand before the world, shouting on the top of my lungs, "I am freed! My difficult journey has ended! Celebrate with me!"

Last night I played and gave my testimony at Crossroads Tabernacle during its monthly "Audience of One" service. I talked about how God has healed me thus far, and that I was a walking miracle, alive and playing. Afterward the service, a member of the congregation asked me, "When did your healing take place?" I knew she meant: "When did you go to bed with complete paralysis, and woke up the next morning to find yourself suddenly able to walk with a cane and play the violin?"

We all love miracles, whether one believes in an almighty Creator or not. There is something amazingly pleasing to the human hearts to see something that requires an incredible amount of work to suddenly appear in thin air. The best part of it is that there is no waiting involved, an ability that I believe all humans are born without. That's why we all wish we have our own personal genie in a lamp to to say "your wish is my command" and to execute that command right away. I am not saying this to belittle human nature in anyway. I still wish, to this day, that I can receive complete healing right here, right now. Needless to say, this longing occupied a large part of my mind (sometimes all of it) during these past seven years.

But would I know what longing means if God would have completely healed me one day years ago? Would I know what to say (and what not to say) to someone else who is hurting, who is disappointed, who is trying to live a day at a time? Would I know what hope means without having to completely rely on it to make each day worthwhile? Would I know what love means without seeing it in its purest forms, without self-interest, without immediate reward and gratification?

It is my seventh anniversary today. And I am celebrating.

Love begins

Tonight I met the first real challenge of volunteering for MOC. My mother tried to warn me about it two weeks ago, but I did not think it would come. At least not yet.

Tonight is the first night when I do not feel anything.

"Oh, yeah," you may be thinking, "That's a quick shift from the post you wrote the other day about the burden of too much feeling." True. I don't know what's worse: too much or too little. It's a constant debate.

Sixteen rooms requested music tonight, which is a relatively big number according to my guide. There weren't any less bravos than all the other nights, everyone was appreciative, and a few people were even so chatty that my guide had to come into the room and rescue me. But by the time we finished, I didn't feel like I really played for anyone. My mind was blank.

This was exactly what my mother tried to warn me. "There is going to be progressively less applause, and as the excitement of 'making someone's day' wears off, all of this will feel like routine," she said. "Then you need love to keep going."

"Love is patient, love is kind...it does not boast, it is not proud...it is not self-seeking." (1 Corinthians 13: 4-5) I once knew a girl who loved her spotlight. She would not admit it, but boy, did she love attention! The highlight of her life was to dress in a beautiful evening gown, walk briskly onto a stage with overwhelming applause, enjoying everyone's gaze and hearing "bravo" over and over again. She secretly took pride in knowing that all the little boys and girls who asked for her autograph wanted to be like her, and that no one dared make a sound in her concert because she was "that good".

That girl died seven years ago with a hemorrhage. Today, I walk with a cane in one hand and my violin and bow in the other. Instead of walking onto a stage lit up by spotlights, I walk into dark hospital rooms. Instead of showcasing months of practice to a well-dressed and admiring audience, I try to serve those who never expected to hear anything pleasant in a hospital except for "everything is fine, you are perfect...you can go home now".

Yet I am happier now than I was back in my performing days. I know that I am not playing for my own glorification, and I know that in a small way, my music is making a difference. Love keeps going when reward ceases and applause ends. It does not matter that I did not feel excitement tonight. That is not the reason why I play.

God is giving me a love for those I have never met and whom I will likely never meet again. When the time comes, I pray that He would let me do much more.

Who needs healing?

It is sometimes easy to forget that the medical staff is human, just like the patients. Behind the scrubs and white robes are people of flesh and blood, of strengths and weaknesses, of feelings and secrets. As naked and exposed as the patients sometimes seem, so do the medical professional appear shielded and "protected" behind their roles.

Or so it seems.

I have had the pleasure of playing for the staff on several occasions. It feels very different from playing for patients. Some listen with a huge grin on their faces, some chatted with one another and giggled (like school children, I might add), and some sway side-to-side on their revolving chairs, absent-mindedly. Playing for the staff often feels like administering pure entertainment. These lovely ladies and gentlemen take a small break from their hectic routines and enjoy some good 'ol music, and once the tune stops, the phone goes back on ringing and the intercom back on buzzing. "That was beautiful!" really means "That was fun, thanks. Now where's that chart and what does Mr. Smith want now?"

One time, before heading upstairs to the rooms my guide asked me if I knew "His Eye Is On The Sparrow". I said of course, thinking that a patient had requested it. It turned out to be a nurse, who clapped excitedly when my guide told her that I could play it for her. I must admit, I was never as eager to play for the staff as I was for the patients. In my limited understanding I did not think that they would benefit as much as the patients would. After all, there's nothing really wrong with them, right? And I don't particularly enjoy being a source of "entertainment".

I started playing the hymn, enjoying hearing the music more than playing it, wrapped up in my own world. "Let me just play this once, before the phone starts ringing or before these people become bored," I thought to myself.

Suddenly I heard a gasp. I looked up and the nurse who requested the hymn turned red. Tears filled up her eyes as she covered her nose and mouth with her hand. None of her colleagues seemed to notice her reaction as their gaze started to wander around the nursing station, remembering that there was something that they had forgotten to do. The woman whispered a soft "thank you" when I finished, turned around and started walking quickly towards the back of the station. I saw her wiping her tears as all the actions resumed in the busy station.

When I least expected it, the Holy Spirit graciously ministered, and I am thankful to be a part of it.

Not I, but Christ in me

When I began writing about my experiences with MOC, I overlooked the possibility of a small side-effect.

I forgot to consider my own feelings about my past as I wrote about others' present.

It is impossible to be objective, to detach oneself completely from what one does. We are, today, the collection of our yesterdays. More than that, we are designed to feel--one of the most beautiful features our Creator has installed in us. Without feeling, life is nothing but the passing of days, counting off hours and events until we breathe our last. However, some feelings can become burdens, weighing down on souls that are constantly struggling to carry nothing but pleasant sentiments and memories.

As I wrote, contemplating on what I have seen in the past months, my past sneaked up on me silently. I remember the despair, the frustration, the loneliness in a tiny hospital room. I remember being imprisoned in my own body, surrounded by the smell of air-conditioning and alcohol. I remember having no control over the simplest things, needing to ask for help for the smallest, silliest tasks.

What have I gotten myself into? Worn out and tired at heart, I wanted to escape from the firm grip of hopelessness, the monster that has come back to life from memory. I was torn between the fear of pain (mine and others') and the burning, insatiable desire in my heart to help and to comfort those in need.

I did the one thing that has never failed me. I went to the Creator of my heart, who has all the answers. Sweet assurance came down from above, gently lifting my heart from the web of dilemma it has spun for itself.

Lovingly He reminded me that it was He who saved me from depression when I had every reason to be sad. It was He who gave me courage to get up again from where I fell and keep going. It was He who made me play again even though no doctor could ever promise me.

Today, it is He who gives me new music to play. It is He who plays through me beside each and every sickbed. It is He who bears all of my burdens, including these new ones. As the Apostle Paul said, "Not I, but Christ who lives in me."

So I rejoice and am once again thankful to be used as His violin. There's nothing I want more for my life. Let me cry, let me laugh, and let me play for those whose paths cross with mine, because God made me this way.

The Gift of Time

In his best-selling devotional, The Purpose Driven Life, Rick Warren wrote that the best gift one can give is time. His reasoning is as followed: It is possible to regain some things that one gives, such as material wealth; time, on the other hand, can never be recovered. Therefore, when we give our time to others, we are in fact giving them a piece of our life--a piece that is forever shared with them.

Before one can give, however, she must first receive. This is true for all manners of giving, but it is especially true when it comes to time. None of us decides how long we spend in this world (with the exception of suicide, of course, which is a whole other issue). Even with the age long obsession for longevity, Tomorrow is never promised to anyone.

But few realizes this simple fact. Many people live recklessly, irresponsibly and insensibly, wasting away a gift that they have been so graciously given. Some people, having had a close encounter with death or having walked very close to it, come to appreciate each new day as the precious gift it is. These people carry with them a blessing that makes each day exciting and worth living. They, in turn, give with a thankful heart.

I met a lovely family one evening when I played at a cancer ward. The mother, a beautiful blond woman in her mid-40's, was the patient. Her 20-something-year-old daughter lay beside her on the bed, while the father, a stout man with a bushy mustache, sat on a small couch across from the bed. The family of three did not seemed like they were in a hospital. In fact, as I entered I felt as if I have been invited into their living room at home.

"Any request?" I asked, as I sometimes do.

"Do you know any of the Disney songs?" The mother asked eagerly. She looked at her daughter and the two exchanged a smile.

As soon as I started playing the familiar melody, tears began streaming down the mother's cheeks. She put her arms around her daughter, who rested her head on her mother's chest. The mother kissed her daughter's forehead, sniffling and chuckling at the same time. The setting sun shone through a large window, reflecting golden rays on a sweet moment of bliss. Mother and daughter rocked back and forth, lost in memories triggered by the song.

"Five years ago, the doctors told me that I wouldn't make it," The mother told me, still holding on to her daughter, eyes shining brightly with tears. "But I did, and I was able to see my daughter graduate from college. It's going to be her twenty-sixth birthday this weekend...and to think that I never thought I would make it this far!"

Thankfulness filled the room as all of us were in tears. No pain, no discomfort was too much for the mother to bear as she thought of each new day that she was given to share with her daughter. As for the daughter, resting in her mother's warm embrace like a small child, I guess there's nothing she wanted more from her mom.

Being normal

It's always about feeling normal again. That you are not living in a place specifically designated for people who have "something wrong" with them. That instead of being "taken care" of or "fixed" by the medical staff, you are buddies who just happen to see each other every day.

It's about taking control, however much you can.

I've visited Jerry twice. Before seeing him, I knew he was special. Something in the eyes of my guide and Jerry's nurse tells me that I should be expecting something a little different from this gentleman than from the others. My guide, who spends a great deal of time volunteering in the hospital, knew him by name. The nurse simply called him "my boy".

The "boy" is a skinny, middle-age man with silver hair. As soon as he saw me step into the room, he quickly got up from his bed and turned to the rolling meal stand next to the bed. He picked up a pitcher with one hand, and searched for a clean paper cup from a stack with the other. His hands trembled with excitement (or because of medication) as he repeated to himself and everyone else in the room (me, my guide, and his nurse): "I want to to give the girl some water, I want to give her some water to drink..."

The nurse, handling his IV monitor, said absent-mindedly, "Just lie down and relax, Jerry. The girl is here to play some music for you." She turned around and smiled at me.

"No, I want to give her some water..." The man continued to mumble to himself, not once raising his eyes to look at me.

"The girl don't want no water! Just lie down and relax. She just wants to play something to make you feel better. Come on now..." The nurse stood between us as she tried to calm the man, who has now poured some water into the cup and made a small puddle on the meal stand. He extended the cup to me with a trembling hand while the well-intentioned woman attempted to fend him off. His excited behavior has probably startled some visitors in the past.

"That's very nice of you, sir," I stepped toward him, accepting the cup. "I will enjoy this water later. Will you hold on to this for me for now?" I handed the cup to my guide, who was standing at the doorway.

Jerry suddenly quieted down. He turned to his bed and lay down with the assistance of the nurse. I began to play a soothing melody that had just then came into my head. Jerry lay motionless for a couple of seconds, then he suddenly got up and started pouring water again. "Come sit down," he called out to my guide, who was still standing at the doorway, as he always does so as not to crowd the already small room. The same scene began again, with people telling him to just lie down, relax and listen.

As we left with cups in our hands, I could still hear the nurse promising the excited man that we would come and visit again. The second time I saw Jerry a few weeks later, he was eating his dinner with the assistance of a nurse, completely oblivious to our presence in the room. His was in his own world, withdrawn from the surrounding. No more being an enthusiastic host to his visitors and no listening to music either. He simply sat there. Recovering to normal? Who knows.

The Sound of Healing

Yesterday I played for a woman at the request of her sister, who was her caretaker. As I entered the room, I saw the elderly woman lying in bed, her pale face turned toward the window, eyes shut tight. A breathing tube hung across her face, and she was motionless. The sister had heard me next door and wanted me to play "anything" for her elder sister. There was a sense of urgency in her voice, which I have never detected before from encounters with others. She quickly cleared a space in front of the woman so that the woman could "see" me when I played.

I began on the G-string, long notes immediately filled the room with sweet tranquility. I kept my eyes on the frail woman, praying that no note would come out too strong to hurt her. Melodies flow from my violin as I backed away from all control, letting God's healing take its course. Her eyelids moved slightly and involuntarily as her body remained still.

The sister gasped as soon as I started playing, murmuring to herself and shushing the other visitors, who began to talk amongst themselves. She went to the woman's side and held on to her fingers (to avoid touching the IV line), gently brushing away streaks of white hair from her wrinkled forehead. Softly, she called the woman as a mother waking her child, asking repeatedly, "Can you hear the music? Do you see the violinist?"

The melodies lingered on, apparently touching every soul in the room except for the one they were intended for. I woke up from reverie as the last note evaporated in the air and a brief silence ensued. "Beautiful!" The visitors immediately showed their appreciation of the "show". The sister quickly smiled at me and turned to the unconscious woman. "Wasn't that beautiful? Can you say 'beautiful'? Hmm?" Her voice started trembling, "Give me something, please...I'll take anything..."

My guide and I silently exited the room. Perhaps somewhere where none of us can yet go, the woman is already making her own beautiful music. I can almost see her eyes shining brightly with joy.

The Identity in Why

It has been a little more than two months since I began volunteering for MOC. I have become friends with the guides who introduce me to the patients, and through the short conversations we have between rooms, we get to know one another little by little. Yesterday, for the first time, the question of why I volunteer with MOC came up.

"Is it because you identify yourself with the patients?" My guide asked.

No, not quite. The fact is, I cannot understand how anyone can ever identify herself as a victim just because she has been hurt or because she has lost something dear to her. It is simply a category that a person would never (I don't think) willingly put herself in. However, whether we like it or not, life is bound to have a few bumps in it, big or small, and some of us find ourselves in situations where everyone else cannot but see us as "victims". Or in this case, patients.

I remember when I first became paralyzed, flocks of visitors came to my bedside, each prepared with a "ya gotta be strong" speech. They bring me books, cassettes and video tapes of individuals who have lost their legs, their hands and other vital body parts. "Look on the bright side, you still have everything attached to your body, they just don't work now", "Disability is nothing to be ashamed of", and my personal favorite, "You really should become friends with the guy next door because he's also in a wheelchair", as if the fact that we both travel on wheels should bring about a camaraderie that surpasses all else. To some of them, I was no longer who I was before the hemorrhage. I was now a patient.

So, speaking from an ex-patient's point of view (one who was proud, almost stubborn), I did not and do not identify myself in the rigid category of "patients", and I don't think anyone I play for sees themselves that way. They are who they are, in a situation they don't enjoy, with a few needs they did not have when they were up and running about. Having gone through similar circumstances once, I come to their beds with nothing but a prayer to give them a little of what I have been graciously blessed with to complement the healing process. I want to help, to the best of my current abilities, and I have the responsibility to do so.

Introduction

A few weeks after graduation I went online to look for volunteering opportunities in a clinical setting. Nothing looked particularly interesting to me. The issue, of course, is not whether a position interests me, but whether I will be of real help to the people I wish to volunteer for. Looking back at my own hospital experiences (where else would I draw my information from?) I recall some not-so-pleasant memories of zealous and eager volunteers who refuse to leave my room until I "feel better". How can anyone be expected to cheer up in a place that is the very manifestation of pain, anxiety and despair? The only relief one can hope for is a moment of escape--a fraction of time where she is free from her bodily prison, free from the reason of her confinement.

I came upon an organization called Musicians On Call. Once a week, I visit a local hospital with my violin, accompanied by a volunteer guide who goes to each room to see if patients would like to hear some live music. I am then introduced to them and play a few minutes by their bedside. Their visitors are part of the audience, and on less busy days I play for the staff as well.

It has been a little more than two months now, and I am most thankful for this opportunity to serve with my music. I have seen so much, learned so much, and I wish to share the experience and some of my thoughts here. I pray that this will be the beginning of a ministry that brings comfort and encouragement to many.