Saying Goodbye is the Hardest Thing

Dear reader, I have reached the last chapter of my thesis, which summarises my research findings, discusses the implications of my study, and reflects on its limitations. 

My final chapter aims to enlighten the reader on the thesis and why its arguments, while seemingly esoteric in their focus, matter to a broader audience. This audience could include the religious, the non-religious, the researcher on religion, the church-going Malaysian Evangelical, the questioning Malaysian Evangelical and the Malaysian Evangelical pastor. 

In other words, I would explain why this entire process was not just a navel-gazing exercise in self-absorption over a topic that titillates me, myself, and me. 

Re-writing and editing the thesis would be a chore as I am long-winded in how I phrase my sentences and have grossly exceeded the word limit. Then there is the thesis submission to external examiners who would either pass or fail me.  

I hesitated a long time today before typing the first few sentences of the final chapter. This reluctance to begin the end of a journey is comparable to how I sometimes delay reading the last chapter of a book I enjoy. I have had many unfinished books strewn around the house, dog-eared on bookshelves, lying half-open on beds, and bookmarked in drawers, prompting my husband to wonder what is up with this book collector who never quite finishes reading her books. 

The truth is, I am pathetically sentimental. Goodbyes are always difficult, and letting go is almost impossible. You will see me fight my tears at the airport when my family members join the immigration queue to check their passports before they proceed to their boarding gate to catch their flight and leave me behind. You will also see me choke when I sometimes read a story in the Modern Love section of the New York Times about how someone found true love and got married but watched her husband turn blue and die from a heart attack. 

Attributing the deferral of the completion of a project due to sentimentality could also be a neat and pretentious way of explaining what could be mere procrastination. This endless deferral successfully deceives me into believing that transitioning to the first chapter in the next stage of my life is another journey that has yet to arrive. An unseen tomorrow is, after all, quite frightening and best delayed. A blank page is what scares a writer most. Or at least what scares me most. It is easier to generalise vulnerability as something that affects a group of people, "writers", for instance. It is way harder to personally admit that, composed of flesh and blood, I, too, am constantly afraid of a blank page, literally or figuratively. 

I have had to start on a blank page repeatedly, and it doesn't get easier, no matter how many times I've had to rip out old pages, crumple them, and throw them into the bin to start over. There's bound to be Plan B, C, D, or E lurking somewhere in the pages of the universe (or God's hand).  I am sure of this. But I'm unsure whether I like surprises in life. It is more fun to read about plot twists as opposed to experiencing them.

As I dwell in this space between the end goal of passing the PhD and writing the final chapter into being, it is strange and surreal. 

Faith is, after all, a mustard seed. I'm also considering the possibility of mountains. What if a faith crisis is shifting tectonic plates moving together and pushing up tail structures to form a mountain of strength and splendour? What if a mountain is not an obstacle to be moved but a symbol of the unshakable in changing winds and storms? What is an existential crisis but an arrow pointing towards change and reconstruction of purpose, a reformation of the self, a conversion of some sort, a paradigm shift? 

P.S. My goodness, this blog has pictures! I finally took the time to insert them. Hopefully, future blog posts will be less sterile and more appealing to the eye.

Picture taken by Melissa Vasco of https://www.lifeofpix.com/