An unexpected journey with a man called home to Jesus

When I first stepped into Kenneth’s flat, I half-expected to see the usual markers of someone unwell: Medicine boxes on the table, walking aids by the wall, a certain stillness in the air.

Instead, I was greeted by what looked like a quiet command centre.

I had come with Chaplain Chiew Poh and a Methodist Welfare Services social worker, Wei Chuan. We didn’t know where the conversation might lead, only that it mattered to show up.

Getting to know Kenneth

Cables trailed across the room. Twin monitors blinked. Screens, gadgets, and scattered tools spoke of a mind still at work, one still curious. When I asked what he used to do when he was younger, Kenneth replied that he was in the IT field.

Kenneth said he spent most of his life helping clients build their IT infrastructure. He was deliberate and sharp, but also warm.

“I was a hacker,” he shared. “The good kind, of course. I found vulnerabilities in my own systems. Hacking’s mostly used with negative intent these days – we have to watch the space.”

When I asked if he had life hacks, he grinned. “You like shortcuts, huh?”

It was the kind of response that said we were starting to warm up to each other. I asked him if he had any spiritual hacks – a question that caught his attention and gently shifted the direction of our conversation.

He had a strong sense of what was broken – and what needed restoring. Not just in systems, but in life.

A family transformed

Kenneth’s journey to faith began when he was nine. He grew up in another religion. His older sister, then 16, was the first in the family to come to Christ. She brought him along, not through persuasion, but by example.

But he was quick to say that she paid the price. Their uncle had slapped her in front of the family. “Just because she believed. She went through a lot for the faith.” His voice carried both admiration and something heavier – an ache, maybe, at what she had to bear.

I asked if she was still in the faith.

He looked at me, as if the question needed no asking. “Of course,” he said. “She’s still going strong. She goes on mission trips to places like Laos.” There was pride in his tone.

Despite what he called a “chaotic” family, all three of his other siblings have also come to know Christ. One became a preacher. His father received Christ on the day he passed away. His mother, he said, is slowly coming around, with his sister’s quiet persistence.

A “complex” family is probably a better word, to show the threads of grace woven by the Lord in the chaos of the family.

A faith that holds

I asked what he hoped people would understand about life. He paused.

“People ask what is the meaning of life,” he said. “But the better question is: What is the purpose of life?”

He believes that the presence of sin is why things are the way they are; that it is only in Jesus that we find purpose, and hope. He shared that many people don’t think clearly about these things, but that they should.

He also brought up something I had not expected. “There’s living energy,” he said, “and dead energy.”

Living energy comes from above. Dead energy is man-made – self-sustaining, but not truly alive. He sees the world with that kind of binary clarity.

As our conversation deepened, he shared his confusion about why he had fallen ill. “I don’t smoke. I don’t drink. And still this cancer.”

In spite of the faith he demonstrated, he admitted he was scared of death. “I am not Superman, just an ordinary man.”

I said: “A simple life can be an extraordinary one.”

He looked at me and replied: “Mine is the ordinary one”, with the mark of humility.

He said it not with drama, but with quiet honesty. “I’m afraid of the pain.”

But in the same breath, he also said: “Whatever comes, comes.”

A moment of worship

Towards the end of the visit, I asked Kenneth how he was coping with everything. He answered with a kind of simple honesty: “By sleeping. Sleeping through.” It was unadorned, but fitting – a small act of surrender in a season where little else could be controlled.

Then came a lighter question. I asked if he was a hymn person. He said no – he preferred contemporary songs. We asked if there was a song he would like to sing. He seemed to think about it, and though he did not name one directly, I had an impression to suggest something.

The author (far right) on his first visit to Kenneth with MWS social worker Wei Chuan (far left) and Chaplain Chiew Poh (second from left).

“Bless the Lord, O my soul”? I offered. The song 10000 Reasons by Matt Redman.

He muttered something about a thousand blessings.

I said: “Yes, I think we’re thinking about the same song.”

It felt like the Lord was working quietly in all our hearts.

And right there, we took out the ukulele and the four of us began to sing. I felt a tear in my eye when we reached the third stanza:

“And on that day when my strength is failing, The end draws near and my time has come.”

I found myself wondering: If I knew my time was short, would my faith be as steady as Kenneth’s?

What he wanted to leave behind

Kenneth said he made it a point to share his faith with every friend who came to visit. Not in a pushy way, but simply to let them know what Jesus has done for him, and what He has done for them too.

His thoughts were clear. His fears were real. But his eyes were fixed on Christ.

I asked him if that was his spiritual hack.

He gave a quiet smile.

Kenneth’s mind understood systems. His words were careful. But his life quietly pointed to something larger: Grace, purpose, and a hope not made by human hands.

I had asked him earlier: If he had to write a book, what would he call it?

He paused, then smiled.

“Learn More About Jesus.”

That was it. Four words.

That is the legacy – and the exhortation – he would leave behind.

Learn more about Jesus.

God is always good

Visited Kenneth at Assisi Hospice.

He was running a fever. We did not talk much – I just sat quietly beside him while he rested.

He mumbled a few words now and then, and I responded gently, not pushing for conversation. It felt like presence was enough. Sometimes, that is all we can offer.

At one point, I asked him: “How confident are you of heaven?”

He replied, in soft moans and groans: “Very, very highly confident … because of my trust in Jesus.”

Even in weakness, that quiet confidence never left him. It was unwavering. Praise God for such faith.

Before I left, I stood up and said: “Hey, will you take a rest?”

He looked up and simply said: “Yes. I’ll take a rest.”

I told him I was pitching his story to Salt&Light. He asked: “What’s that?”

I explained briefly, and he replied: “Oh … please. Thank you.”

There was something in the way he said it – grateful that his journey might bless others. I could see it meant something to him. A quiet yearning that his story would live on to honour God.

I left him a card with the last nasi lemak I had gotten from Adam Road – the one that says: Life can be messy, but God is always good.

It was a short visit. But deeply moving. And I sensed it would be one of my last.

I do not know if the article will be published before he is called home. But I will keep it going.

Because I believe stories – especially stories of grace – do not end with the last breath. They echo. They testify. They glorify.

Thank you, Lord, for that moment. And for Kenneth’s quiet, courageous faith.

Postscript: An Unexpected Journey

Since my first visit to Kenneth Leong on April 16, 2025, what began as a single encounter grew into an unexpected journey. I returned another five times, with short exchanges in between. Each visit carried its own rhythm – sometimes conversation, sometimes silence, sometimes only a brief word of prayer. We even spoke of making a trip to Adam Road for nasi lemak. Though that outing never happened, I brought the meal to him instead, and the delight on his face was enough to show how much the thought itself mattered.

Along the way, I discovered that blessing is rarely one-way. I thought I was there to minister to him, but Kenneth was the one who blessed me. In weakness, he still prayed for me. In weariness, he still carried a spark of humour. In faith, he pointed me back to Christ. Even the smallest things – a sketch, a song, an emoji in a text – became holy moments.

His room at Assisi Hospice became something of a sanctuary. A safe space where I could speak honestly about the burdens I was carrying. Kenneth listened without judgement, without rushing to give easy answers. He prayed for me, even as I prayed for him. And one afternoon, when I asked him to pray for me directly, it gave him back something precious.

Dignity. Purpose. Even in weakness, he was still able to give. That prayer, whispered through tired breath, became one of the greatest gifts I received.

So much of the journey was like that. I showed him my journal, and he reminded me that God is the Master Artist, mixing colours we cannot yet see. I pointed him to Philippians 2, and he showed me how Scripture lands with power in the midst of weakness.

These were not just exchanges. They were sacred moments where heaven touched earth.

And it was not just the two of us. Along the way, there were others whose lives were also woven into the story. Pastor Joshua, who read the Word with us. The two brothers at Adam Road Hawker Centre, who told me of their father’s passing as they wrapped the packet of nasi lemak. Chiew Poh, who quietly guided visits, always mindful of Kenneth’s strength. The chaplains who prayed with us, the friends who checked in. Each encounter was its own thread of mercy, woven into something larger. None of it was incidental.

Kenneth passed away on August 27, 2025. At the service, his sister Juliana stood with quiet strength and grace, a reminder of the faith that had first entered their family through her. In her, I could see how Kenneth’s story was part of a larger tapestry of faith and love, woven through generations.

Looking back, I realise I was blessed as much – perhaps more – than Kenneth was. He reminded me that dignity does not end with illness, that the final chapter of a life can still carry weight and meaning, and that even the weakest voice can still point others to strength.

He ministered to me in ways I did not expect, and in doing so, he gave me a gift I will carry for years to come.

Jesus said in John 10:10, “I have come that they may have life, and have it to the full.” That is what I saw in Kenneth. A life anchored by grace, lived to the full even in its closing chapters. A life that pointed beyond itself, toward eternity.

This was not only his story. Somewhere along the way, it became part of mine too.

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