Father, I wanna come home!

I suspect that "someone" taught me about God and that He lived in the Heavens. Otherwise, how could it be that a child of 6 years thinks about God and scans the skies for a glimpse of Him? So, I suspect that I was told about God and about His character of love, during my early years of life in Singapore.

I never did seek God or envision Him as one of the idols in my foster family's home nor at the temples that they brought me to. I do not know who it was who filled me with this information but one thing I am certain, it was not from the family that raised me when I lived in Singapore, for they were staunch Buddhists. Neither could it have been my foster family, whose religion was Buddhism but whose religious rituals were mingled with a tat' of Taoism.

This is the only logical explanation that I can offer as explanation for what I have always known in my heart. To make head or tail of this ingrained knowledge imputed into my life. To whoever it was, I thank you from the bottom of my heart. I believe that knowing that God lived in the skies above me, brought me hope and strength. It also likely saved me from premature death from suicide.

Yes, suicide. At the age of 7? I doubt that there is a legal age for suicide and certainly, there is no minimum age for situations that can bring forth this destructive thought.

The beatings laid on me by my foster mother were almost weekly. Usually, it was about trivial matters such as housework chores uncompleted or for being sassy-mouthed and defiant towards her or to my brothers. Mind you, I was always a vocal one and still am, though somewhat mellowed in my adulthood.

I am not offering a defence for my actions then but I consider my defiance a means of expressing the fact that enough was enough. Even an animal that is constantly caged in the house, kept working and not allowed to interact with other animals, would snarl and bite out of frustration and tiredness. What would you expect from a mere child of 7 years?

I was not allowed to play with the neighborhood children for fear that I would, in my childlike innocence, "spill the beans" about the going-ons in the house to them and in turn, they would tell their parents. Appearances were very important for my foster mother. However, she did not reciprocate. She did not see any harm or injustice in "painting" me as a problem child in the eyes of my neighbors and her relatives. Later, she continued to "paint" me as a "harlot" in the eyes of any man that came by - but that is another story, one I will share with you another day.

She was a very inteligent lady and a gifted actress, she was, my foster mother. She saw being offensive would be her best defence. Cut off all opposition or potentially embarrassing questions, before anyone could pose it. I think that if she became a politician, she might just outdo Hillary Clinton.

For each time that she beat me with the thin rattan cane, she would yell loudly enough to be heard by the neighbors. A string of obscenities. vulgarities and curses would be hurled at me. Words like - Useless! Ungrateful! Ugly! Stupid!

I am sure my neighbors heard the yelling and I am sure that they waggled their tongues at home. Perhaps, they would have said - " Poor lady! See what she has to endure! Out of kindness of her heart, she saves a child from poverty and this is the thanks she gets! Poor, poor lady!"

I am sure that they would have done the Math and concluded that I was "indeed" a problem child. In fact, the lady who lived directly opposite my house, whenever given the opportunity to be alone with me, would remind me to be a good child. She advised me not to create problems for my foster mother and to be grateful for what I was receiving. I was 1o or 11 years old. I just nodded my head and did not bother to reply nor correct her myopic perspective.

Every uncle and aunt who visited us or whom we visited, would also hop on the bandwagon and offer their advice on how to be a good girl. Each time, I just stared at them but my mind was always screaming - " You don't know the truth! You blind fools! You can't see even the tip of your nose and you dare advise me. Fools, the lot of you!"

They were actually wasting their time because for me, their words were like "water droplets off a duck's back". No one even bothered to ask me the true story. They believed my foster mother, the great storyweaver. I decided a long time ago, that, to tell my side was simply a waste of time and effort. Why bother when no one genuinely wanted to know the truth. They chose to believe what they wanted to believe. They did not at any point, question the possible deception in that home.

So to whom did I turn to, when the going was just too much to bear? I turned to God. I sought Him at my secret hiding place. My refuge. Where was it?

The back portion of the bungalow had a 4 ft concrete ledge of that jutted out just below the roof tiles. If a tall ladder was propped against the back wall, one could reach and sit on it. I love that place. That became my place of refuge for many years. When I wanted to escape from the family and the pain of living.

Most importantly, it was a place where I could meet God secretly. Where He was mine and mine alone. Mind you, each time I sought God, it was hardly in the best of circumstances. It was really when I was suicidal. Yes, believe it or not, I was already suicidal at the tender age of 7.

I remember very clearly, how I would stand with half of my soles of my feet already extended out from the ledge. Unsteady because of the pain from the 10 to 20 lashes on my sore back. Eyes blurred and throat parched from the crying that just would not stop, no matter how hard I tried.

At times, I stood there very angry. Other times, I was just hurt. Sometimes, both. Always disillusioned with everything happening in my little life. Nevertheless, each time I stood there, poised and ready to jump - my words to God were almost the same.

I would stretch my hands skywards and say these words - "Father, I wanna come home. Please let me come home!"

Somehow, I worked it out in my mind that I came from God. That He alone was my Father. That where He was, was where home was. As I was His child, I needed His permission to come home. I waited and waited but God was silent. He did not say a word. Nor did He give me a sign. Nothing extraordinary happened to even imply that it was fine to "come home". Zilch happened.

As the minutes of waiting dragged on, realization would hit me. The silence spoke to the fear in my heart. I did not have permission to go home.

Disappointed with God, automatically, I would move away from the ledge and collapse in a crumbled crying heap. Only this time, the sobs would be, for want of a better adjective, more heartbreaking. I remember crying until I could hardly breathe and I would feel dizzy and lighheaded. The need to catch my breath again, invariably put an end to my bouts of crying bout. Then, the peace would slowly but surely come. Then, the calm would descend like the mist descends on the fields in the early morning. Slowly and gently.

Totally exhausted, I would curl up like a "cooked prawn" and drift off to sleep. My family probably knew that I was on the ledge and it is strange how they did not bother to look for me, no matter even if it was raining. I am sure that they would have heard me crying but they did nothing. I am sure my neighbor who lived just at the back of the house, would have heard me so many times, but they too did nothing.

Once, I have recovered sufficiently, I would climb down the ladder and life carried on as usual. Until the next time that I would have need to visit the ledge again. I never stayed away long - just a few days or by the end of the following week at the most. I would be found on the ledge again. A practice that continued well into my mid-teens.

Of course, by the time, I was 8, a cousin asked my foster mother for permission to take me to church. She said that since I was a problem child, going to Sunday School would help to impart some godly principles that, once internalized, may just "tame" me.

My foster mother liked this cousin because she considered this young lady as polite, respectful, obedient and submissive. So I was allowed to go to church and this was a luxury that I enjoyed until I turned 10.

That is how I was able to attend the Petaling Jaya Gospel Hall's Sunday School. I heard about a God and His Son called Jesus and how this God lived in the heavens, way above the skies of this world. Hey, this sounds like my God! The one whom I regularly meet on the ledge. Only now, I knew His name and that has been the name I have called on until today.

So to whoever it was that taught me about God, I say thank you. To my cousin Mary, who I know has gone home to God, her life cut short by cancer, I say thank you. Knowing more about God in those early years, gave me the strength to go on.

To God, I thank you too. I am glad that You never replied my cries to "come home" otherwise, I would not have had the chance to live out this life. To come so far and experience a real family of my own. To enjoy the joys and pain of friendships that have come my way. To find real purpose in my life despite all. Thank you God. Love yuh!