This is not a religious post.


I go to a sweet little church in Phuket. The homilies are simple and always the same: love the family, help the poor, be peaceful. There is hardly any hell and sin, hellfire and brimstones, devil and satan. Just warmth and loveliness, and good music.

And every Sunday, the last song we sing is this:

These words from the song reverberate in my heart, you know, like a catchy tune that you can’t get out of your mind:

Give thanks

Let the weak say I’m strong

Let the poor say I’m rich

Give thanks.

It’s like I’m being brainwashed. It has become like second nature to want to do something about the weak and poor, like a call to battle. And whilst I am able to, I do, in my small ways.

At the Mass last Sunday, my priest retold the conversation he had with a small girl who told him, “I don’t understand this God. He is invisible.” And Fr John told her, it is up to you to make him visible.

So here is me giving thanks to my cardiologist who put me together again three years ago when I fell apart. There is divinity and science in what he does.

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Recently, my heart started playing up again. I was (am) anxious, a bit fearful and yes, a bit angry. Tsk tsk. I should be grateful instead, grateful for how far I have come from three years ago. I have had such an amazing life since; those three years were worth a lifetime of joy. I have much to be grateful for. The best is yet to come.


DANKJE, HENNIE. My imperfect heart serves to remind me.

Photo: The dark days of November 2016, but in the darkness, I saw the stars.