Sun Xiabing Memorial

As horrible as this disease is,
there are gifts if you are open to them.
Even the worst thing happened,
I would not have traded these gifts
for a life without this disease.

> Sun Xiabing

Sun Xiabing (孙夏冰), the subject of this memoir, was born in Lianjiang County, Fuzhou, November 4, 1984. His mother is a nurse, his father a middle school teacher. Although raised up in an ordinary family, Sun Xiabing himself was no ordinary boy - he was a genius, a gifted and diligent student from Peking University, and had gained admission to the University of Cambridge before graduation. However, his life as a future physicist tragically ended too soon. On March 29, 2008, Xiabing died in Fuzhou of a rare tumor called primary synovial sarcoma of kidney, at age 24.

Actually, I had never met Sun Xiabing, not even a phone call had been made between us, although we were of the same age and lived in the same city. The first time I “saw” him it was on Gtalk. It was around 18:00 of February 16, 2008 when I, as usual, was sitting in front of my office PC, and “sxbing@gmail.com” suddenly appeared in my friend list. That was Xiabing, though I was utterly unaware that this was a soul that had been fighting a fierce battle against a deadly disease for almost a year.

Our chat began with the topic of Fuzhou dialect. He had a polite and modest character, but what amazed me, though, is his knowledge and taste of Fuzhou vernacular literature. Xiabing had previously searched Fuzhou dialect resouces on web and found my Gmail address. He asked me where he could download Mindu Bie Ji (《闽都别记》), a Fuzhou native classical novel, to which I replied that the book was only available in stores. Not wanting to disappoint him, I gave him another voluminous book written in Foochow Vernacular, the PDF Foochow Romanized Bible. I also recommended to him a forum for discussing languages and dialects of Fujian, and I said, “Why don’t you introduce yourself to the forum members? Let me post a thread to welcome you.” To my bewilderment, he declined my invitation, so I asked him why. “I have cancer,” he said calmly, “which is of a very rare kind.” I was so dull; I didn’t get the implication of his statement, that he was in fact dying of that horrible disease. How sad.

During the days that followed, we often met on Gtalk, discussing things that we both showed interest in. We had never talked about physics, however, because he had never told me that he was good at physics, and even if we had had a chance to talk about it, I believe I would’ve soon found that his knowledge on that field was much more than I could comprehend. When I was offline, he would email me interesting web pages. On February 29, I received another email from him inquiring the Foochow pronunciation of the character “映”. He asked me if I was able to read Lin Juemin’s Letter to My Wife (《与妻书》) in Fuzhou dialect. I said I couldn’t - I wasn’t even able to read the first sentence “意映卿卿如晤” properly. “How do you pronounce ‘映’ then?” “Beyond my ability. Will ask my parents about it.” In that weekend, I sent him the answer “ióng”, but never received his reply afterwards. That brief and unfinished conversation turned out to be our very last.

News about his death reached me weeks later. Had I known he would have left us so soon, I would certainly have paid him a visit. Shocked and sad, I googled his name, and then realized that Sun Xiabing was much more than I had known him: he was a genius. “Genius” is a word I have carefully chosen, but yes, that’s what Sun Xiabing was, and even in great agony he still kept learning new stuff. In a sense, he was a warrior, and he fought to the end.

But an inevitable question was raised: where did he go when he died? Xiabing had learned that I am a Christian. I remember a time when we were talking about faith and he asked me, “Do you believe in Jesus?” “I do.” I replied, “And you?” His answer was unlike any of those that I often hear from most arrogant infidels, “I’m not a Christian, but I’m willing to know more about your religion.” Yet another time he asked me, “Is there any house churches in Fuzhou?” I said “Yes of course. I’ll take you to one of our house churches someday.” Clearly, he had obtained a deep understanding of “House Church” vs. “Three-self Church” in China, but again I dropped the topic, thinking that I would still have time to preach to him. And now, to my greatest sorrow, I would never ever have the chance to fulfill my promise. I kept kicking myself for it: why didn’t I seize every opportunity to spread the message of Jesus? Had he been converted to Christianity before death? Only God knows. In his last diaries, Xiabing wrote of the peace and consolation he had found in Guanyin, the Buddhist goddess of Mercy. I collapsed into tears when I read this.

The only thing I’m sure of so far is that death is not the end, but rather the beginning, the beginning of the afterlife. We have come to this world not by accident, no matter who you are, a king or a vagabond - we are here with a mission. Sometimes we wonder why God, this omniscient and omnipotent supreme power, would allow terrible things to fall upon good people, but the truth is, God wants us to be Christ-like through hardships, sufferings and pains. To quote C. S. Lewis: “The blows of his chisel, which hurt so much, are what makes us perfect.” Yes, Xiabing was almost perfect, and that may have been the reason for which he left this world so soon.

I hope Xiabing’s parents will accept my deepest condolences upon the loss of their beloved son. Anyway, his legacy still lives on.

Yearning for the Sun

Sun Xiabing is buried in the cemetery near the Fuzhou National Forest Park. For more than a year, his mother, together with some of his closest friends and schoolmates, had been compiling his works, including compositions, diaries, correspondences, and speeches, into a book titled Yearning for the Sun (《向往太阳》). In October 2009, a few months before the book was published, I met his mother in a restaurant. She seemed to have partially recovered from the grief, and told me that the memorial book for Xiabing would be her spiritual support for the latter half of her life. I know it must have been a desperate thing for a mother to lose her son, but let us thank God that she has found a new hope, a new form of existence, and a new meaning of life.

Let’s remember Sun Xiabing; let’s remember his short yet legendary life, and pass his spirit to the next generation. His book Yearning for the Sun: Our Xiabing is now in print and can be ordered: ISBN 9789881891211.

Last updated: 2010/01/31