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Every Christian has his own cross to bear but God gave Gilbert one to sit on. Life takes on a
different perspective when seen from a wheelchair.
There is a wonderful Christian song that goes like this... "When you're up against a struggle that shatters all your dreams, and your hopes have been cruelly crushed by Satan's manifested schemes...."
I used to sing this without feeling the true weight of its lyrics. My struggles then were trying to keep the choir in harmony being the choir director, and a shattered dream was when a nice-looking Christian girl declined to go out on a date with me.
Now I listen with humored patience and perhaps a little annoyance at fellow Christians' woes and grumbles about difficult bosses, bad hawker food and demanding clients. Trifles! An extreme example was when a female friend moaned on end about the mess her hairdresser made to her hair as if it were the end of the world.
Priorities of life have also changed. I tell my friends it is wonderful to have a vocation to gripe about; that I miss and will probably never again enjoy the pleasure of a lazy ride on a public bus. Looks do not matter much when you do not look into a mirror as often. We complain about having no shoes until we see a man with no feet. I have seen the plight of others in the hospital in far worse conditions than mine and in this I take comfort. The joy of the Lord is my strength.
I was a draftsman before life called me to the wheelchair. Like many youngsters, home was like a hotel. I was totally absorbed in a variety of activities that kept me out of the home till past midnight. I was the life-of-the group sort of guy.
Then at 22, an accident took place. Five days before Singapore's National Day in 1983, a fatal jump into a swimming pool fractured my neck with devastating results. I became paralyzed.
That night at the hospital, I plunged into deep despair. I felt chills and excruciating pain but had yet to realize how bad my condition was. Three weeks later, when the doctor asked my parents if they would like to place me in an institution, my mother lashed at him for even thinking of that. I was not rudely shocked. I had already asked the physiotherapist how bad things could get and soaked in the truth slowly.
Nurses and doctors who worked round the clock to buff the reality of living without much movements disappeared when I was wheeled home three months later. I woke up early the next morning to the poignant realization that I could do nothing but lie there for almost three hours waiting for my parents to wake and tend to me. Hopelessness filled my otherwise cheerful disposition.
On Christmas eve 1983, it was just the television and me. No one was free to take my calls. For six hours, I sat in front of the machine and watched till the transmission ended, then for another hour, stared at the blank screen, waiting for my mother to wake and put me to sleep. Despite a brave front, a silent cry of desperate loneliness rang out from within me. It suddenly dawned on me that I could no longer join in the carolling or the fun and frolic of the Christmas season. I could only sit and helplessly wait for help.
Because I was severely paralyzed, I lost all sensations and movement from the chest downwards and the use of my fingers. With virtually no control over my urinary and bowel functions, I found incontinence one of the most embarrassing problems.. It was exasperating.
The ever-present fear of wetting my pants, which has happened many times at church services and weddings whenever the plastic bag that I wear becomes dislodged, has made me ration my water intake whenever I go out. The mess-in-the-pants story, especially when I have diarrhoea, cannot be adequately described.
 Other worries are bladder infection, urine retention, bedsores, kidney stones, all of which can lead to death - a seemingly attractive alternative. After all, I am a born-again believer and as the apostle Paul says, "For to me, to live is Christ and to die is gain" (Phil 1:21). I used to stick my nose up at those who contemplated suicide and judge those who committed this act of 'hari-kiri'. Now I fight a daily battle against the constant jarring of suicidal inclinations. There have been handicapped people who took their own lives and many were less disabled than I. Perhaps I should thank God that I cannot use my fingers.
With all these troubles, one would have thought my main concern is to adapt to my physical limitations. Yet I find myself warring not just against the evil one but also against fellow Christians who try to spiritualize my dilemma. Suggestions that I had been affected by black magic and accusations that I was lacking in faith, or that I was harboring a secret sin, were some of the reasons given as to why I am not healed. God's punishment was on me, some claimed, or that my great grandfather sinned and I am suffering from the consequences. The crux of their contention is that I should be healed and if I am not, something is wrong with me.
Being the only Christian in a Buddhist family created many problems, although my parents love me very much. Certain church members, however, translated my parents' care and concern as pagan practices.
Some members whom I do not know at all would come barging into the hospital and start scolding my parents, insinuating that the cause of this accident was their heathen beliefs and idolatrous worship. Spiteful letters were written to my family anonymously. I was told to stand up for Christ, and not accept the temple mediums and supernatural 'sinsehs' that my parents sought after in their anxiety to see me cured. The irony is that in my bedridden condition, it is my family members that feed, clothe and bathe me, remove my urine and faeces day after day, night after night. It saddens me when church members do nothing more than judge, give no practical help but cause more grief to an already tragic event.
The greatest hurdle is in accepting the fact that I may never have a family of my own to call. At 22, I was only beginning to seriously consider working towards a relationship. I left my best for the right girl and felt that God had robbed me of a family. It is one thing to fight a sexual desire and another to have nothing to fight over - a hollow victory.
The vantage point from a wheel chair, however, offers an interesting but often hurting view. When ever a song leader in a worship service asks, "Shall we rise to our feet?" I know it is a privilege beyond my ability. I miss the luxury of the warmth of kneeling before the Lord. There's something about prostrating before Him that I find irresistible. Yet when I know that reaching for the Bible whenever I need words of comfort is no longer possible, I am motivated to memorize more of His Word, knowing how precious and priceless it is.
 Through these years, it has been the grace and mercy of the Lord that have kept me in the fold. I attend church through the patient help of church brothers who laboriously ferry me to and from church every week. It is literally "bearing one another's burdens". Many have helped eased the pain by their sensitivity and thoughtfulness through phone calls, cards and gifts of flowers, sweets and chocolates. It really helps and, more importantly, impresses my parents when friends and fellow Christians take the trouble to come to my home and assist me in my day-to-day chores. Prayer for one another is vital but may Christians not stop at that. A good Samaritan goes out of the way to help even strangers.
My disability gives me ample time for reflection. God has placed me in a unique position. Whenever I perform a praise song, my conviction has an added effect in touching the lives of people and, hopefully, it will move their hearts into accepting Jesus as Savior. "For when I am weak, then am I strong" (2 Cor 12:10).
Sometimes, when I am asked, "What is it like to be a disabled person?" my answer is, "Don't scratch a mosquito bite the next time one appears and see how long you can bear the itch." When people asked, "Why, God?" I tell them the question should be, "What, God?" as in "What would you have me do?"
I have a favorite statement that describes my predicament: Sometimes I wonder, but I do not doubt.
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