The Death of Things

Everything has its time. An expiration date. Whatever the preservative, however long lasting the fuel, whoever the maintenance guy is, regardless the age. The greens displayed on the produce aisle. The engine underneath the hood of your car. The heart enthroned in my ribcage. Everything...and everyone ends.

I guess that's why everyone's so desperate to leave something behind. Property, Letters, Marks (physical or otherwise), Masterpieces,... Legacies. All with the intention of being remembered.

And suddenly, I realize that I'm obsessed with the desire of leaving behind a legacy too.

It was only yesterday that I was invited to sing a special number for a Memorial Service. The request was specific:

"I want you to sing a special for my mom's Memorial Service. Would that be a okay?"
"Not a problem at all." (Thinking that was all to it.)
"Really? That's wonderful!..." (At this point, I was already imagining myself singing a Jared Anderson song.)
"I want you to sing an old song. It's a favorite of mine."
"Oh-kayy...what song would that be?" (My trail of thought was abruptly cut short. Hopes for singing "Amazed" were dashed. My imagination had met its time.)
"Well, I'm not quite sure if you know it actually..." (She starts humming a abit of a tune along with some broken lyrics)
"Err, that sounds... familiar..." (It wasn't.)
"(Reaches chorus and starts to sing) If He carried the weight of the world upon His Shoulders...Yes, that's it. That's the one!" (She was obviously excited.)
"Pardon me?" (Blank.)

Needless to say, I came away from that conversation quite positively; agreeing to sing it for her whilst someone played on the keyboard for me. There was one catch though. I still hadn't recognized it. With good old Google, I managed to track down an mp3 of "He Will Carry You" (the title of the song). Soon I was emersed in the droning chore of listening to the song, over and over again. It was old. Really. And I had found the bridge particularly scary.

After listening to the song for a couple of rounds, I decided to take a break to clear my head. When I returned to my laptop barely 10 minutes later, my dad was sitting in front of it -- looking somewhat sheepish. I smiled. That could only mean one thing.

After an hour of battling, I was defeated. I couldn't seem to do enough anti-virus scans to remove any of the infections from my poor laptop. They just kept multiplying by leaps and bounds. And the lagging was not helping at all. Finally, when it began heaving and coughing (blue screens and incredibly long lags) we just nodded solemnly at each other knowing that its time had come. Rest in Peace, Lappy.

That was the end of that. God was really teasing me that time, I thought.

But it wasn't over for me yet. Before I knew it, I was already in Kulim - in the cozy premises of Mr. and Mrs. Abel. (The Memorial is for Mrs. Abel's mother) It is here that I find out that I am to play the song WHILST singing. Apparently, I had heard her say that she'd "get a sister to play for you" and had misunderstood. She had meant that I was to choose literally from my train of flesh-and-blood, my actual sisters, to play for me and had not meant "sister" as the random way one would call a lady in church! My eldest sister (the only other person who can play the piano aside myself, was in Kuala Lumpur for training.) Lovely.

Calmly, I said, "Sure, just give me a couple of minutes with the keyboard before service and I'll be set."

A few hours later, there it was. My cue was fast approaching. It was my time to sing. There were several people who were to come up to testify, about how wonderful this lady Shuba was, how prayerful and how she’d impacted their lives in various ways. She had made so much effort to care for the poor, the needy and the children in church. She was faithful to her ministry of prayer even to her dying day. She had hardly thought of herself all through her life -- she was just so devoted to her ministry -- giving all glory to Christ. Her legacy was a beautiful one!

And there I was. All through the other presentations, I had only ghastly images of me hitting a wrong chord and stumbling on the words – ‘cause I had hardly practiced it. "What a mark to be leaving behind!" I thought, hanging my head in shame, as the first person came up to testify.

When I heard the testimonies, I was just so humbled and inspired by Shuba even in her absence. I did not even know her personally, yet I felt challenged by the legacy she left -- I felt driven to pray; that it wasn’t about me making a fool of myself, rather, it was doing it as unto the Lord and making sure He was pleased with my presentation, my worship. That I would die to myself, and live again for Him. That He would use my fingers and voice to glorify Him and not myself; as Shuba did in her lifetime... in her time.

This was my time.

I walked towards the keyboard, said a few words. And sang my heart out.

“He said call unto me, All who are weary, and I will give you rest…”
(View the rest of the lyrics here.)

They told me I was good. That I did really well. But Mrs. Abel’s face was reward enough. I died that day... only to live again -- for the Lord.

I get it now, Lord. I finally get it. It was my time to shine. I did. For You.