Job + no work pass = no Singapore
Job + work pass = Singapore
I have the job. God has Singapore. Now I must get a work pass. It's absence is fatal to the project.
My house is packed up, given away, sold up. We have whittled our earthly possessions to a collection of boxes that account for as little cubed space as possible. We have lodged all that we own on a ship that is consigned for Singapore. We have quit our jobs, quit our lives, quit our safety. All our chips are loaded on the black number 18. There is one final throw of the croupier's dye. The bases are loaded. Two strikes. Last pitch of the game. Everything is riding on the last throw. Deep within I know that God produces drama better than Holywood. He is going to quietly walk up to the plate, doff His helmet, point to the upper lighting stack and then smash the biggest home run ever seen in the Major League. This ought to be good.
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