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God'egift Arts Gallery, Pinang (2026)

02/06/2026

My Promised Land

“Get thee up into the top of Pisgah,
and lift up thine eyes westward,
and northward,
and southward,
and eastward,
and see it with thine eyes…”
— Devarim 3:27

Moshe stood upon Pisgah,
lifting his eyes toward the land of promise.

Valleys stretched before him,
rivers shimmered in the distance,
and the inheritance of Israel
lay beneath the light of heaven.

Yet beside another Promise,
I found my gaze wandering elsewhere.

Not westward.
Not northward.
Not southward.
Not eastward.

Only toward You.

My neck stretched long with waiting,
like one who has watched the horizon for years,
whispering:

“How much longer?”

Yet every glance returned
to the same beloved Face.

For my Promised Land
was never merely a place.

It was a Person.

⸻

“Unto thee it was showed,
that thou mightest know that Hashem He is HaElohim;
there is none else beside Him.”
— Devarim 4:35

Later,
beneath the evening sky,
You pointed upward.

“Look at the stars.”

And they were beautiful.

The heavens glittered
with countless lights,
each one declaring the glory of its Maker.

Yet while You looked at the stars,

I looked at You.

And quietly smiled.

For what are stars
before the Bright Morning Star?

“I am the Root and the Offspring of David,
and the bright Morning Star.”
— Revelation 22:16

There is none else beside You.

Not in the heights above.

Not in the depths below.

Not in any promise,
gift,
or inheritance.

For every good thing
only points back to the Giver.

⸻

And there,
beneath Your head,
rested Garfield.

Once only a tangled thread
from my clumsy hands.

A knot.
A mistake.
A thing I thought was ruined.

Yet in Your hands
the tangle became a companion,
and the companion became a pillow.

The orange thread still reaches back
toward the little tent,
a reminder that redemption
does not erase the story—

it transforms it.

For the Master Weaver
does not discard tangled threads.

He turns them
into testimonies.

⸻

So let Moshe gaze upon Canaan.

And let the stars fill the heavens.

As for me,

my eyes remain fixed
upon my Treasure.

For where my Treasure is,
there my heart will be also.

And, if I am being completely honest,

my wandering little ✋🏼 as well. 🤭🩵

⸻

“I am thy chelek and thine nachalah.”
— Bamidbar 18:20

“For where your treasure is,
there your heart will be also.”
— Matthew 6:21

“Hashem He is HaElohim;
there is none else beside Him.”
— Devarim 4:35

Amen. 🏕️🌙✨🩵🐱🧶💍📿

‘Poem crafted with the help of ChatGPT, prayerfully guided by ‘The Presence’.

01/06/2026

אֲנִי חֶלְקְךָ וְנַחֲלָתְךָ
Ani chelkecha ve-nachalatecha
“I am thy portion and thine inheritance.”
— Bamidbar 18:20

For many years I thought inheritance was a place to reach,
a promise to receive,
or a destination beyond the horizon.

Yet through the wilderness,
the Holy One taught me a deeper mystery:

The inheritance was never merely the land.

The inheritance was the One who walked with me through it.

Like the daughters of Tzelophechad who received their nachalah according to the word of Hashem (Bamidbar 36:2), I learned that every true inheritance comes from His hand.

And then He spoke an even greater promise:

“I am thy chelek and thy nachalah.”

Not merely a gift.

Not merely a blessing.

But Himself.

So my heart found its resting place.

“For where your treasure is, there your heart will be also.”
— Matthew 6:21

And perhaps my hand also.

For how could it not reach toward its Treasure?

Beside us stands the little tent beneath the stars,
the tiny sanctuary of countless conversations,
tears, laughter, waiting, and wonder.

Once I thought I was helping build it.

Instead, I tangled the threads.

Yet the Master Weaver wasted nothing.

The knots became stories.

The mistakes became mercies.

And one tangled thread somehow became Garfield.

Such is the kindness of the Lord:
to take what is twisted in my hands
and turn it into something unexpectedly good.

So here we stand,
not at the end of the journey,
but at the end of Bamidbar—

beneath the moon,
before the little tent,
my feet upon His feet,
my heart upon His promise,
and my eyes upon my Treasure.

For my inheritance is not a place.

My inheritance is Him.

‘Poem crafted with the help of ChatGPT, prayerfully guided by ‘The Presence’.

31/05/2026

The Same Question

The Lord spoke of inheritance.

The little vessel asked about Home.

The Lord spoke of gifts.

The little vessel asked about Home.

The Lord spoke of power.

The little vessel asked about Home.

Again and again,
through dreams,
through paintings,
through Hebrew words,
through wilderness journeys,
through tiny tents and little vessels,
the same question remained.

“Yes, Lord…
but when are You coming back?”

The world calls this longing.

Heaven calls it love.

For many seek what is in the King’s hands.

But the little vessel keeps reaching for the King Himself.

She is not unimpressed by His gifts.
She is simply distracted by His Presence.

Then one day,
while reading the words of Paul,
she stumbled upon a phrase that felt strangely familiar:

“My ko’ach is perfected in weakness…
that the gevurah of Moshiach might be a shelter over me.”

A shelter.

A tent.

A dwelling.

And suddenly the tiny tent appeared again.

Not merely a refuge built by human hands,
but a picture of the One whose Presence covers,
shelters,
and remains.

Then another thread joined itself to the story:

“On that day ye shall know that I am in My Father,
and ye in Me,
and I in you.”

The little vessel had always known she belonged to Him.

But now she saw something deeper.

The vessel was not merely carrying His Presence.

She was living within it.

The tiny tent was never only about her.

It was about “us.”

A shared dwelling.

A quiet place where the mystery of
“ye in Me, and I in you”
became a painting.

And then Bamidbar whispered its final secret:

“For I Hashem dwell among the Bnei Yisroel.”

Among them.

In their midst.

Not merely visiting.

Not merely watching from afar.

Dwelling.

Suddenly the orange thread,
the little vessel,
the tiny tent,
the shelter,
the inheritance,
and the longing all belonged to the same story.

The story was never really about gifts.

Nor power.

Nor assignments.

It was always about Presence.

Even Garfield,
born from a tangled orange thread,
somehow found his way back to the tent.

The little vessel followed the same thread.

Not understanding everything.

Not understanding every chapter.

Not understanding every mystery.

Only knowing that wherever the thread led,
it always led back to Him.

And so the question remains unchanged:

Not,
“What gifts will I receive?”

Not,
“What power will I inherit?”

Not,
“What assignment comes next?”

But simply:

“Yes, Lord…

When are You coming back?”

Until then,
the tiny tent remains beneath His shelter.

The orange thread remains unbroken.

The little vessel remains in His keeping.

For He dwells among His people.

He is in them.

And they are in Him.

And the Presence remains Home,
even while Home is still ahead.

‘Poem crafted with the help of ChatGPT, prayerfully guided by ‘The Presence’.

29/05/2026

Pesach in the Tiny Tent 🏕️📖☁️

“And in the fourteenth day of the chodesh harishon (first month i.e., Nisan) is the Pesach to Hashem.”
— Bamidbar 28:16

At first,
I looked at Passover
through the smoke of burnt offerings.

The Mishkan was filled with fire,
the altar alive with sacrifice,
the camp gathered around the Presence.

And quietly,
I wondered where I belonged in it all.

The larger tents glowed around us,
families gathered in celebration,
while my tiny tent stood quietly among them.

But this time,
I no longer needed
to cling onto the re’ach hanichoach
to reach Him.

Because somehow,
during the long Midbar journey,
the distance disappeared.

He was already beside me.

So I asked Him:
“How do we celebrate Pesach now?”

And gently,
the Master revealed
that the heart of Pesach
was never merely the meal,
nor only the offerings upon the altar.

The heart of Pesach
is remembrance.

Remembering:
He passed over.
He spared.
He rescued.
He brought His people out.

“then tell them, ‘It is the Passover sacrifice to the Lord, who passed over the houses of the Israelites in Egypt and spared our homes when he struck down the Egyptians.’”
— Exodus 12:27

And suddenly,
the tiny tent became enough.

The lights dimmed.
The wilderness quieted.
And there,
inside our little overlapping home,
He read the story to me like a bedtime remembrance.

Not grand spectacle.
Not performance.
Just Presence.

The story of rescue
spoken softly before sleep.

And Garfield,
finally restored to full-body existence,
rested happily beside us—
back at the birthplace of all the tiny tent adventures. 🐈🤣

Outside,
the smoke of offerings still rose toward heaven.

But inside,
my heart finally understood:

Pesach is not merely about sacrifice upon the altar.

It is about the God
who passed over trembling homes,
and stayed.

☁️🏕️📖

‘Poem crafted with the help of ChatGPT, prayerfully guided by ‘The Presence’.

28/05/2026

“Come Back Soon” — A Tiny Tent Trilogy 🏕️🧶💦

“He who testifies to these things says,
‘Yes, I am coming soon.’
Amen. Come, Lord Jesus.”
— Revelation 22:20

The Midbar journey became too long again.

The soul grew impatient because of the way.
The transparent veil still remained.
The longing became too heavy for quiet prayers.

So instead of calm holiness,
there came:
banners,
boycott mode,
orange tangled threads,
dramatic emotions,
and maximum visibility clothing. 🤣

“If You still don’t come back,”
the little vessel cried,
“I’m going to mess up more in my life!”

So she sat beside the pool in blazing colors—
not to hide,
but to make sure He could clearly see her. 😭🤭

Yet the King did not answer with offense.

He simply jumped into the water.

🏊🏻‍♂️

“Come swim with Me.”

But the answer remained:
“No 😤
I’m still boycotting.”

And still—
He stayed nearby.

The orange thread of longing tangled around everything,
but the thread never broke.

Instead,
the Master quietly gathered the tangled strands
and transformed them.

Even Garfield was restored—
no longer just a floating little head,
but made whole:
hands,
legs,
tail,
a full companion crafted from redeemed thread. 🧶🐱✨

Because this is what the Presence does:
He wastes nothing.
Not even dramatic covenant chaos. 🤣

Then came the return.

“And it came to pass after the plague…”
— Bamidbar 25:19

For Israel:
after the plague.

For the little tent pilgrim:
after all the dramas. 🎭😭🤣

At last,
she allowed herself to be carried back toward the tiny Mishkan tent.

The Midbar was still Midbar.
But Home was there.

And later,
beside a humble stream,
the protest finally softened.

“Unless I wash you,
you have no part with Me.”
— John 13:8

The One who had patiently followed her through every emotional storm
now gently washed away the dust of the wilderness.

And suddenly,
the soul that earlier refused the water
became like Peter:

“Then wash my hands and head as well!” 🤣😭
— John 13:9

Because beneath all the dramatic fleeing,
the real cry was never separation.

The pain was real.
The longing was real.

The heart never truly left.

It only wanted:
Home with Home.

So the tiny tent still remained standing.

Through:
boycotts,
tears,
slow-motion fleeing,
flying shoes,
Garfield redemption arcs,
and tangled orange threads—

the Presence never stopped drawing near.

And somewhere in the wilderness night,
beneath the quiet pillar of cloud and fire,
the little vessel finally laughed again.

‘Poem crafted with the help of ChatGPT, prayerfully guided by ‘The Presence’.

26/05/2026

“No More Midbar”

“And the nefesh haAm was much impatient because of the way.”
— Bamidbar 21:4

וַתִּקְצַר נֶפֶשׁ־הָעָם בַּדָּרֶךְ
Vatiktsar nefesh-ha‘am ba-darekh
“The soul of the people became shortened because of the road.”

The road had become too long for the heart.

After seeing Aharon received into the fullness of the Presence,
something inside me broke open.
The veil no longer felt thick—
only unbearably transparent.

I could see Home.
Yet still not fully enter.

So I ran.

No more Midbar.
No more wandering.
No more ceremony.
No more standing strong.

The outer robe fell first.
Then the boots.
Then the strength.

Face-first upon the bed,
I wept like a child longing for Home.

And before the tears could even finish falling,
He was already there.

Still wearing the same garments from the ceremony,
He followed me into the room.
Not as distant King,
not from behind a veil,
but close enough to kneel beside grief itself.

“For to me, to live is Christ and to die is gain.”
— Philippians 1:21

“We are confident, I say, and willing rather to be absent from the body, and to be present with the Lord.”
— 2 Corinthians 5:8

The Midbar suddenly felt too heavy
after seeing someone finally arrive.

Aharon no longer walked by faith.
He walked by sight.

No more cloud.
No more distance.
No more transparent veil.

And my heart cried:
“When will it be my turn?”

Yet even there—
in the collapse,
in the flying boots,
in the tangled tears,
in the exhaustion of the journey—

Home Himself came near.

Not only at the destination,
but along the road.

And perhaps that is the mystery of love in the wilderness:
before we finally arrive Home,
Home already refuses to leave us alone.

“I am thy chelek and thine nachalah.”
— Bamidbar 18:20

The inheritance was never merely a place.

It always Him. 🩵

‘Poem crafted with the help of ChatGPT, prayerfully guided by ‘The Presence’.

26/05/2026

Aharon spent his whole life serving near the Presence —
lighting lamps,
offering incense,
standing between the living and the dead,
carrying the names of Israel upon his heart.

Yet all those years,
there was still a veil.

Even the Kohen HaGadol could only enter once a year,
and only with blood,
and only trembling.

But on the mountain,
something changed.

No more ephod.
No more breastplate.
No more earthly garments.

“Moshe stripped Aharon of his garments… and Aharon died there on the top of the mount.”
— Bamidbar 20:28

And suddenly,
the one who spent a lifetime ministering before the Presence
was no longer standing outside the veil.

He entered in.

Not into the earthly Mishkan,
but the eternal one.

In painting,
Heaven does not receive Aharon with fear,
but with tenderness.

The King stands waiting with open arms.
The angels gather behind Him.
Even the dark navy garments carry gentleness —
mourning acknowledged,
love undiminished.

Because Heaven is not cold toward grief.
Even holy departures leave tears behind.

And yet,
Aharon smiles.

He did not enter the earthly Canaan,
but he entered something greater:
the unveiled Presence of God.

“We are confident, I say,
and willing rather to be absent from the body,
and to be present with the Lord.”
— Second Epistle to the Corinthians 5:8

“For to me to live is Christ,
and to die is gain.”
— Epistle to the Philippians 1:21

The silver embroidery in the painting says something beautiful too.

Usually silver in Scripture is connected with redemption.
Not celebration —
redemption.

As though Heaven is whispering:

“Yes, Israel mourns below…
but he has been safely brought home.”

And perhaps the deepest part is this:

Aharon spent years standing before a veil sewn by human hands…
while now,
through Yeshua,
the veil is no longer closed.

“What is this hope?”
My painting quietly asks.

That one day,
all who love Him
will no longer paint the Presence from afar,
or through transparent curtains,
or from outside the camp.

One day,
the veil will lift completely.

And the One i painted waiting on the mountain
will truly say:

“Come home.”

‘Poem crafted with the help of ChatGPT, prayerfully guided by ‘The Presence’.

25/05/2026

“I Am Thy Chelek”

בַּמִּדְבָּר י״ח — Bamidbar 18

“And Hashem spoke unto Aharon,
Thou shalt have no nachalah in their land,
neither shalt thou have any chelek among them;
I am thy chelek and thine nachalah among the Bnei Yisroel.”
— Bamidbar 18:20

⸻

At first,
the heart still looked around.

Other tents seemed larger.
Brighter.
More furnished.
More admired by men.

Some carried banners of status.
Some glittered with performance.
Some looked so grand that people assumed,
“Surely the Presence must dwell there.”

But then came the Voice inside the wilderness:

“I am thy chelek.”
“I am your portion.”
“I am your inheritance.”

Not:
“I will merely give you one.”

Not:
“I will point you toward one.”

But:
“I Myself am your portion.”

And suddenly,
the tiny tent behind them no longer looked small.

Because a tent that holds His Presence
cannot be measured by canvas size,
gold count,
or human applause.

The little vessel hanging from the tzitzit understood this first.

The inheritance was never the land alone.
Never the gifts alone.
Never the ministry, the beauty, the influence, or the praise.

The inheritance…
was Him.

That is why the feet in the painting cannot stay still. 🤭

They are not running toward riches.
Not running toward Egypt.
Not running toward bigger tents.

They are running because the soul has just heard:

“You have Me.”

And when the soul truly hears that,
it becomes weightless with joy.

⸻

“Whom have I in heaven but You?
And there is none upon earth that I desire beside You.”
— Psalms 73:25

⸻

“The LORD is my portion, saith my soul;
therefore will I hope in Him.”
— Lamentations 3:24

⸻

“For where your treasure is,
there will your heart be also.”
— Matthew 6:21

⸻

The wilderness still remained.
The journey still remained.
The tiny tent still stood in ordinary dust.

But now the heart understood:

The greatest inheritance in all creation
is not what is inside the tent.

It is
Who is inside the tent. 🏕️🥹

‘Poem crafted with the help of ChatGPT, prayerfully guided by ‘The Presence’.

24/05/2026

~From Crown of Thorns to Crown of Blossoms~

The journey of the blossoming rod did not end in the Mishkan.

🌿

A dry rod blossomed before the Presence.

📖

“…the man’s rod, whom I shall choose, shall sprout…”
— Book of Numbers 17:20

Overnight,
dead wood:

* budded,
* flowered,
* brought forth life.

🥹

At first,
I thought perhaps He would place just one little flower near my hair.

Just one gentle blossom.

But the Master does not give sparingly.

The One who caused Aharon’s rod to bloom
took the blossoms and wove them into a living garland. 🌸🌼🌿

And as He placed it upon my head,
another crown suddenly appeared in my heart.

📖

“And they clothed Him with purple, and platted a crown of thorns, and put it about His head.”
— Gospel of Mark 15:17

😭

Without the crown of thorns,
there would never be a crown of blossoms.

Without His piercing,
there would never be our healing.

Without His lowering,
there would never be our lifting.

📖

“Thou crownedst him with glory and honour…”
— Epistle to the Hebrews 2:7

The blossoms upon my head are beautiful not because flowers are beautiful,
but because Someone first chose thorns.

🥹

And there in the background,
the tiny tent still remains. 🏕️

The little Mishkan where:

* tangled threads became joy,
* weary hearts found rest,
* tzitzit were exchanged,
* and the Infinite One willingly stooped low to dwell near.

From rod,
to blossoms,
to thorns,
to glory—
He kept weaving me quietly into His Word.

😭🌸

📖

“And let them make Me a sanctuary; that I may dwell among them.”
— Book of Exodus 25:8

Not merely among tribes in the wilderness,
but within little human tents too.

And somehow,
the One crowned with thorns
still delights to place flowers upon others. 🌸

‘Poem crafted with the help of ChatGPT, prayerfully guided by ‘The Presence’.

24/05/2026

📖

“I will both lie down in peace, and sleep; for You alone, O LORD, make me dwell in safety.”
— Book of Psalms 4:8

📖

“When thou liest down, thou shalt not be afraid… and thy sleep shall be sweet.”
— Book of Proverbs 3:24

Inside the tiny tent,
there are no grand sermons,
no striving,
no performance.

Only quiet nearness.

The wilderness outside may still be vast,
but inside the little Mishkan:
☁️🔥🏕️
there is peace enough to sleep.

Not because the wilderness disappeared—
but because the Presence remained.

🥹

And so the weary heart whispers:

“Can I stay here…
on Your shoulder…
forever?”

And the answer comes not through words,
but through rest itself.

😴🤍

⸻

Then the threads appear again.

🪢

📖

“And it shall be unto you for a tzitzit, that ye may look upon it, and remember all the mitzvot Hashem…”
— Book of Numbers 15:39

The tzitzit were given for remembrance.

Threads tied at the edge of ordinary garments,
so wandering hearts would remember covenant.

But here,
the remembrance becomes mutual.

🥹

A tiny vessel tied upon one tzitzit:
🙋🏻‍♀️
“Here I am.”

A miniature figure tied upon the other:
👑
“I am with you.”

Not merely commandment—
but belonging.

Not merely religion—
but relationship.

🪢

And suddenly,
all the earlier paintings begin connecting:

* the tangled thread becoming Garfield,
* the overlapping rest inside the tiny tent,
* the shared Mishkan,
* the curled Presence,
* the tiny camp,
* the exchanged tzitzit.

Everything woven from the same thread:

nearness.

😭

📖

“And let them make Me a sanctuary; that I may dwell among them.”
— Book of Exodus 25:8

Not merely among tents.
Not merely among tribes.
But within little human “tents” too.

The tiny Mishkan was never too small for Him.

Love willingly stoops low.

Even now,
the Infinite One still enters fragile little vessels,
and says:

“I want to remain here.” 🥹

‘Poem crafted with the help of ChatGPT, prayerfully guided by ‘The Presence’.

God'egift Arts Gallery

02/06/2026

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