Botany of Grace: Planted, Not Planned, 60 Years On

They say God moves in mysterious ways. In my case, He preferred mud over marble floors – arriving quietly through leeches, blistered feet, and the occasional misplanted seedling.

As 2026 opened its first few pages and the year still smelled faintly of new calendars and fresh resolve, I found myself looking backward – not in regret, but in gratitude – and felt an urge to share how my working life first took root among plants, soil and unintended lessons.

Once, in a younger season of certainty, I thought I knew exactly where life was headed or at least where I was determined to push it. I was a first-year Life Science student at Universiti Kebangsaan Malaysia (UKM), fixing my gaze on Medicine the way a hungry cat fixes its eyes on a bowl of milk: focused, unwavering, and mildly obsessed.

The plan was admirably straightforward. Study hard. Score high. Heal the world. I even harboured a tender ambition to become a paediatrician. I loved babies and children, and the idea of placing healing into small hands carrying oversized hopes felt noble, almost pre-ordained.

But when the university selection list was finally released, reality intervened with a harsher lesson. Under the quota system, only a small handful of top-scoring non-Bumiputera students were admitted – and my name was not among them, even though a few classmates with comparable or higher marks made the cut. It was one of those quiet, defining moments of my life: I remember sitting alone in a church, tears flowing, learning for the first time how disappointment can shape hard work, humility, and resilience.

I, meanwhile, was “redirected” into continuing with Life Sciences for my second year. By the third year, I had to choose a major. Out of sheer resignation or maybe divine mischief, I picked Botany. Yes, Botany! That word that made relatives nod politely and say, “Oh… plants, ah?” while mentally recalculating my career prospects. Their children and my friends proclaimed Engineering, Law or Business with the pride of a victory lap. I mumbled “Botany”, and could almost hear the unspoken sigh: ‘sayang seribu kali sayang’.

What began as disappointment, I later realised, was God’s quiet redirection – because sometimes He changes not the dream, but the soil it’s meant to grow in. At the time, I felt defeated – convinced that my life would never make a difference. During one retreat, I remember voicing that very fear. The facilitator smiled and said softly, “Maybe it’s not about making a difference. Maybe it’s about being faithful where you are.”

It felt like holy consolation disguised as common sense. So, I stayed. And Heaven must have smiled – for on hindsight, God didn’t change my calling; He simply changed my field.

Something About Plants

I don’t know exactly what it is about the plant kingdom that continues to draw me in, but it still speaks to both my head and my heart. Perhaps it’s the colour – those endless shades of green that calm the mind and coax the soul to breathe. Green whispers hope; it’s nature’s way of saying, “Life goes on.” Or perhaps it’s the oxygen – that invisible grace exhaled by leaves, reminding us that even silent things can give life.

Maybe it’s the wild biodiversity of our tropics – fruit trees to climb, pluck and enjoy; orchids that preen like queens, ferns carpeting the forest floor, and humble weeds that refuse to surrender. Every plant, from the proudest palm to the shyest kulat or lumut, praises God in its own dialect.

My passion for plants began long before UKM ever taught me their Latin names. It started in childhood – planting vegetables, watching them sprout and harvest. Those backyard plots were my first laboratories of patience, my earliest catechism in faith. There was something sacred in watering a seed and trusting what you could not see.

And of course, there were the trees – rambutan, mango, durian. I climbed the first two like a kampung Tarzan, sticky with sap and joy. But durians demanded reverence. Waiting under one was an act of faith in itself – you never knew when the fruit would fall or where. It was my first theology of trust: watch and pray… and stand slightly to the side.

Looking back, I see now that those were God’s early lessons – teaching me to notice, to nurture, to wait. Every leaf was a sermon; every root, a reminder that growth happens underground before it shows above.

The Lesson in the Leaves

In Botany, I soon discovered, was theology in disguise. The plants became professors; the forests, cathedrals.

I was mesmerised by plants – not just their green splendour, but the secret world within. Peering through a microscope, I once traced the outline of a single leaf cell, its chloroplasts shimmering like tiny emeralds of life. And in that silent, microscopic universe, I knew: God is real. No random chance could choreograph such symmetry, purpose, and quiet brilliance. Even in the grand narrative of evolution, I see not contradiction but orchestration – the Creator conducting life’s unfolding symphony with infinite patience and precision. Every cell, every root, every breath of green is a note in His masterpiece.

I fell in love with the quiet intelligence of creation – the way roots of Oryza sativa (rice) probed the dark, humus-rich soil, tracing capillary channels with unhurried faith. The way leaves of Helianthus annuus (sunflower) turned instinctively toward the morning sun, performing that daily act of devotion called phototropism. Beneath the bark, the cambium hummed softly, weaving new life between xylem and phloem – the hidden arteries of grace within every trunk and stem.

In the chloroplasts, the ancient alchemy of photosynthesis unfolded – sunlight, carbon dioxide and water transformed into glucose through the Calvin cycle, catalysed by the humble enzyme RuBisCO, the quiet worker that feeds the world. Some species eg oil palm (Elaeis guineensis) thrived through this daily miracle, while others, like the resilient Imperata cylindrica (lallang), whispered endurance beneath the harshest sun.

The dipterocarps of Borneo – Dipterocarpus, Shorea, Dryobalanops – stood like pillars in a green cathedral, their crowns filtering light into the forest’s incense. Even the rare Rafflesia keithii seemed to preach its own gospel: that beauty and purpose often bloom unseen, in shadow and silence. Along the riverbanks, Rhizophora and Sonneratia stood with roots like open arms – their prop and pneumatophores reaching heavenward, breathing life between tide and soil. Meanwhile, Nepenthes rajah (pitcher plant), the proud pitcher plant of Mount Kinabalu, turned survival itself into an act of grace.

Every field trip became a silent retreat. Every leaf, a living homily. Each stomatal opening was a tiny chapel of breath where oxygen and carbon exchanged like prayer and surrender. Even in decay, the forest testified: resurrection begins in the soil.

Somewhere between chloroplast and chapel, between Calvin cycle and contemplation, I realised that creation doesn’t merely exist – it worships. The forests became my monastery, the cambium my catechism, and the hum of photosynthetic life my psalm of praise.

By graduation, I had earned the department’s first-ever First Class Honours and, as fate would have it, also the last before the department renamed itself to keep up with modern trends. It wasn’t the course I had wanted, but it was the one God had written for me. Because God doesn’t always open doors – sometimes He reroutes us to better fields.

I was later blessed with a scholarship to pursue my Master’s in Plant Breeding at Downing College in Cambridge, researching haploid production in Brassica napus (rapeseed) in exploring how chromosomes could be doubled to accelerate hybrid development. Somewhere between the petri dishes and pollen cultures, a quiet stirring grew in me: If we could apply such precision to oil palm – the lifeblood of our region – how much more could we nourish the world?

It was as though God had redirected my microscope – from cells to calling, from productivity to purpose. That research bench became an altar of discernment. I began to sense that science, too, could be a form of stewardship – that every cross, every hybrid, every seed was not just a genetic equation, but a grace equation, reminding me that even in the smallest cell, creation still sings.

The Field as My Vocation

And so, I spent more than three decades in the plantation world – from research to training, from boardrooms to advocacy – breathing it in, embracing it fully. I led, I stumbled, I learned. I made my fair share of mistakes. Yet I choose to believe that I gave it my best, ran my race with passion, and left the field a little more tended than I found it.

Somewhere between a germinating seed and a ripening oil-palm bunch, I realised that vocation – or stewardship – is not defined by what you do, but how you do it: with love, professionalism, and an awareness of God’s presence in all things. Our Muslim brethren call it being khalifah – caretakers of the Earth. Different faiths, same heartbeat: to serve creation as thanksgiving to the Creator.

If someone was to ask, “Do you regret not becoming a doctor?” I would smile and say, “No – I just changed patients. Now I treat the land.” To care for the land – to nurture growth, prune wisely, steward responsibly and advocate true sustainability – is, in itself, a ministry of creation. It is prayer made practical.

Years later, as I end my walks through endless rows of oil palms in Sabah, that same truth ripened. I began to see plantations not as factories of fruit, but as parables of faith. The soil taught surrender. The floods and prolonged droughts taught humility. The harvest taught hope. Even the low prices taught perseverance – for grace, like chlorophyll, works quietly under pressure.

In every estate I visited, I saw not just palms but people – families whose lives were rooted in the same soil. They weren’t waiting only for better yields, but for hope, education, and dignity. At musters, walking among them or visiting the children in the Humana schools – through rain, laughter, and long days – I learned that faith is not just about saving souls, but about uplifting lives.

In tending the land, we are also called to tend hearts. And perhaps that is the truest form of ministry – to serve God quietly in the ordinary furrows of human labour, where grace still grows best in humility and mud.

That same conviction later led me to few organisations including Montfort Youth Training Centre (MYTC), a technical vocational educational training (TVET) centre, where the soil of human potential awaited nurturing hands. The young men there – many from marginalised, broken homes or forgotten corners of society – reminded me of tender seedlings needing only guide, patience, and a chance to grow straight.

What began as plantation management became people formation. From fertilising palms, I found myself helping the youths fertilising dreams – helping them believe their worth is not measured by background, but by belief.

Looking back, I can see how the lessons of the field translated seamlessly into life: Weeding taught me discernment – knowing what to remove so the good can grow; fertilising taught me generosity – giving more than you take; harvesting taught me gratitude – reaping only what God allows; and replanting taught me hope – that death in one season or cycle feeds life in another.

Somewhere between photosynthesis and prayer, the lines blurred. My work became worship; my career, catechesis. And perhaps that’s the real invitation of faith: not to change jobs, but to see your job as God’s classroom.

In both field and classroom, the mission was the same: to cultivate life. Whether in soil or soul, the principles endure – observe carefully, nurture patiently, prune gently and trust the process. For every person, like every plant, carries within them the quiet miracle of regeneration.

And perhaps that’s what God was teaching me all along: stewardship of land, labour or lives – is never just about production. It is participation in creation, seeing the divine hand at work in the smallest seed, the simplest person and the slowest transformation.

When Seasons Change – From Retirement to Refirement

Fast-forward a few decades. The boots grew older, the steps slower, the body aches more frequent. I arrived at that season politely called retirement – a word that, at first, sounded suspiciously like exile. After years of schedules, meetings and measured urgency, the sudden silence was deafening. For a while, I wondered if my usefulness had expired, like an old licence tucked away in a drawer.

But grace has a way of sneaking through the cracks. In the quiet, I heard a whisper: “I’m not done with you yet.” Retirement, I learned, is not the end of mission – it is simply the next chapter of it. The world may stop handing you business cards or invitations to meetings and conferences, but heaven never stops handing out purpose.

So I began again – to write, to mentor, to serve – not for promotion this time, but for proportion. Not to climb higher, but to dig deeper. This is not retirement, but a second harvest – a quieter, clearer fire where ambition softens into gratitude, and purpose finally has time to breathe.

Grace now comes with fewer meetings. I no longer chase KPIs; I cultivate meaning. Still in service – just without a payslip. This new chapter is my gentle passage from early retirement to refirement – a rekindling of purpose while the mind still hums with memory and meaning.

It is the calm blaze that begins when gratitude finally replaces ambition. Because God’s work does not end when your salary does; if anything, that is when grace finally clocks in full-time.

Where Ink Meets Anniversary

And today, as this reflection finds its way into print, it carries a quiet coincidence close to my heart. Today is also my 60th birthday.

60 is a beautiful threshold. It stands where time slows, perspective deepens, and meaning quietly takes the lead. Reaching 60 was not guaranteed; it is received – less a victory to be claimed than a grace to be acknowledged. It does not ask for applause. It asks for a pause.

In many cultures, 60 completes a full turning of the clock – a return to the starting line, not to run faster, but to walk wiser. By this age, life has edited us with care. Ambitions have been pruned, illusions returned to the soil, and what remains is truer, sturdier and more honest.

Now, with more silver crowning my head – despite the valiant but short-lived efforts of hair dye – than soil clinging to my boots, I have come to see that God’s greatest gift is not success, but continuity. He has been faithful through every season: in disappointments that became doorways, in detours that became discoveries, and in retirements that quietly turned into second harvests – rekindled seasons, afterglow years, and an autumn rich with meaning.

I no longer chase milestones; I try cultivate meaning. I no longer ask, “What’s next for me?” but “What’s left for me to give?” Perhaps that is the heart of discernment – realising that God’s will is not hidden in the clouds, but waiting patiently in the work already before us.

If you ever find yourself at a crossroads – between what you once dreamed of and what you’ve been given – take heart. You may have missed your plan, but never God’s purpose. He is the Master Planter.

Today, I walk a little slower but still busy writing, sharing, aspiring to inspire – discerning more deeply, smiling more gently, and trusting the Planter far more than the plan. He never truly changed my field; He changed the way I see it.

And if you’ve read all the way to this point – kudos to you. In an age of scrolling, skimming, and six-second attention spans, your willingness to stay the course says something beautiful. By reading this story to its end, you have given me the best birthday gift I could ask for: your time, your attention, and your openness to walk through my life’s fields with me.

God did not change my calling; He simply changed my field. And with gratitude, I step gently into the next season of my life.