AUGUST 21 — If you don’t know me personally, and haven’t already picked up on this in my writing, you should know that at some point in life I became quite cynical about many things, and continue to be.  

Life and circumstance have made me so.  

I have seen some of the darkest places of humanity and many times when I have shared about it, I’m met with blank stares and little response.  

Indeed I became so frustrated with this response within churches, I had a hard time knowing what it is churches were doing.  

How many times I have told someone or a group about children who are dying and the response is “I’m sorry,” or “That’s very sad” or “We will pray.”  

And all of those things are true, but what I needed, and wanted was you to say, “How can we help.”  

Oddly enough, I have continued to hold deep in my heart a belief that somehow there was good left but that perhaps people needed to be reminded of it.  

And so I took up writing as an avenue in which to reach hearts.  I thought perhaps my words would make a difference.  

It’s been hard to gauge the number of people who read my writing and were touched into action. I have had some emails thanking me for writing what I did, but I don’t know how wide the reach has been, nor how deeply it has touched people.  

And the truth is, I don’t need to know. I will keep writing, keep hoping and praying that we can make a difference in even just a few lives.

That being said, it doesn’t mean there haven’t been times of sheer, overwhelming anger at life and suffering and the fact that more isn’t being done about it.  

Anger that sometimes makes me say things I wouldn’t normally say.

I’ll never forget when one of my babies, David, died.  I posted the news on Facebook when I could breathe again.  One of the first comments was from a friend, and all she said was, “Shit.”

My first reaction was horror. My then more conservative heart was in turmoil. How could she say such a thing? And yet hers felt like the most honest of anything anyone posted.

There were plenty of well meaning people who posted “we are praying” and “prayers,” but hers was the one that meant something to me. Yes, shit.  My son had died.  He had not been healed.  Not by medicine, not by God. This wasn’t fair.  And I was angry.

Precious David, with his funnily formed arm and his lopsided smile, evidence of a disease process that affected more than his heart, was gone.  My baby was gone.  No more smiles.  No more giggles.  No more high “fives” with his funny hand.

One day, years later, when I finally found freedom in myself to say the truth about situations, even when it wasn’t pretty, I realised, after losing another child, that my first reaction to suffering and injustice being anger and raw pain was okay, healthy even.  Because it spurred me to do more. 

And so I do, I write, I fight, I work, I cry, I get angry, and I keep going. 

But I confess that recently I almost gave up on my dear sister Allen. I wrote about her before, the story of “the Burned Woman.” 

I have been fighting for a long time and it felt like we were getting nowhere.  I was angry, so angry in fact that I got in a serious argument with one of the closest friends I have, so bad that I almost didn’t even care if I ever saw him again. I almost gave up.

But then a door opened. It was small, but it was enough for me to stick my foot in and make sure that it didn’t close. I barely had any fight left in me, but I wasn’t going to let this opportunity pass us up. It may be our last hope. 

So, with fear and trepidation, I decided to start raising funds for Allen to be brought to Singapore for what I hope will be a miracle for her.  But I honestly had no idea how to do this. Cynical me knew that telling people about her hadn’t helped too much in the past, and I highly doubted I would be able to raise the kind of funds I needed in a few short weeks.  My goal was US$10,000 (RM41,212), enough to get her to Singapore for evaluation and consults. 

But something so unexpected happened. Something that till now I cannot believe. I shared on my Instagram and Facebook page about her needs, having no idea who would see it. Last year I had decided to step out of the public’s eye and I had no idea what would happen; my expectations were not high but my dreams were. 

I went to bed and woke in the morning to find out that my plea had gone viral. Indeed, so large was the reach that I immediately began getting calls from news outlets asking to run the story.

Not only was the money raised in just a few hours, but an excess, an amount which will be used for her medical care, was raised within just a few days. 

And I have had to step back and with overwhelming gratitude and a heart overflowing with awe, realise that I need to let go of some of my cynicism and disenchantment and realise that there is still good around us. The good that I’ve been believing was somehow out there if we worked together, worked together for Allen this week and I am overwhelmed. 

And so I would like to say a sincere “Thank You” to each and every person who has been involved, and will continue to be involved as we bring Allen to Singapore and seek treatment for her. 

A little bit of the anger fell from my shoulders where I have been carrying it as a burden this week, a little bit of the hope I once had returned to my heart, and I am filled with such gratefulness and perhaps walking with just a bit more lightness in my step.

*This is the personal opinion of the columnist.