Serendipity

Serendipitous—surprising, unexpected, strangely coincidentally pleasurable—a word to describe some marvelously unprecedented occurrence. A perfect word to describe life's incongruities.

Teaching ESL is consistently awkward, ever rife with miscommunications, silences when there ought to be laughter, words in the wrong places and inflection in the wrong spaces, and the insertion of foot into mouth.

But teaching ESL is also consistently humorous; comedy leaking in between the frustrations, and mixing with the affection for students which together cement the beloved structure of teaching.

Add to this the exigent adventure of living abroad, and your life evolves into a most delightfully incongruous yet harmonious dwelling.

On Fridays I finish teaching at 9 AM, and am typically home by 10, after wrapping up some prep work or helping clean the staff room.

Last Friday I went home in light snow, attempting to shelter my nose from the frosty air, changed into several layers of walking attire and then ventured back outside for an untimed excursion.

Always my feet take me to the riverside where the city noises can be almost drowned by the river’s rush and chorus of bird calls, from the heron’s squawk to the invisible song bird chimes. This time I harbored the notion of heading upriver and perusing the department store for more fleece-lined attire, but the gorgeous snow-coated vistas reminded me of the many weeks since I’d toured the Hanbat Arboreteum. Thus downriver I went, setting a brisk pace to combat the rather more than brisk wintry air.

Snow is a great equalizer. Everything becomes a masterpiece when adorned with snow. Keeping my eyes fixed to the opposite bank and its backdrop of mountains laid with snowy trees was breathtaking. How snow converts us all to children, eyes wide with wonder at this revitalized world!

By the time I closed in on the Arboreteum, the sun had begun to permeate the iron clouds and was making the already stick snow increasingly wet and clumpy.

But the beauty remained for the next forty minutes while I wandered without aim or complaint or concern through the maze of trails of this gorgeous, immense park.

The Hanbat Arboreteum is split in two—each half sporting immaculately maintained grounds of various botanical beauties. Each side rambles on for several acres, tens of acres, but one side is much larger.

This time I strayed through the smaller side, as I’d yet to probe all its corners.

I smiled at the bushes of hanging red berries, crimson clusters capped magnificently with virgin snow, surrounding the chill gray waters of a small canal. I laboriously attempted to decipher a signpost describing the various conifers growing nearby, and peered upwards at long green needles, interrupted by the occasional short round cone. (I wondered if these were Scotch Pines.)

In rejection of the wide, gravel walk I found myself down by the Lotus Pond, usually brimming with coi fish (some of admirable size) and lilies, now boasting seasonally red lily pads and sand-colored winter grasses.

There to greet me, growing up from a circular snowy bench were two squat figures: miniature snow-folk of impressively round bodies with miniature round heads, twig arms stuck in their sides and pebbles pressed in for eyes and noses.

Oh, how precious they were!

They wrangled from me a most satisfied smile, and inspired me to complement their jolly presence with a snow-figure of my own. It was not so smoothly round or charming, perhaps, but a cheerful little person with pebbles for eyes and stubby arms of snow. I hoped another would find these three and add to the group.

Grinning like a fool, a blissfully thoughtless fool, I continued my trek through the steadily dampening grounds. (How much joy we get from the simplest and most childlike endeavors!) The sun was doing its best to melt away the lovely winter wonderland, but so far it was succeeding only in increasing the stickiness of the snow and reflecting off the crystals to rend the air sparkling.

On my final lap around the park I stuck my earbuds in and trotted on, planning to cross the Expo Bridge under its sweeping red and blue arches, and make my way homeward in time for lunch. Christmas carols ringing I picked my way around puddles and onto the bridge. Halfway across were two figures, bent over rolling snowballs. On opposite sides they called to each other, stopping a moment to breathe and shake the cold from their bare fingers. They wore large black parkas with furry hoods, but were also bareheaded and had sneakers on their feet, which were surely being permeated and dampening their socks. They were not, in short, properly prepared to be playing in the snow—but playing they were, despite their age (perhaps eighteen or nineteen.)

I passed by one in his labor, smiling at him in general friendliness and droll amusement. But my steps slowed as I neared the edge of the bridge and looked back. Then I shrugged and turned around, picked my snowy way back to the young gloveless chap, and held out my second pair to him.

He was surprised of course.

“Use them, they’ll help,” I said, with no idea whether he could understand me or not.

“Oh,” he said, looking at them, “really? Are they yours?” He spoke English!

“Yeah, use them, it’s cold. You don’t have to keep them. I’ll wait.” I didn’t care to give this boy my gloves and walk away never to see them again. I did not mind awaiting their return.

“Oh, thank you,” he said, slow to take my offer.

But as he attempted to put them on, his hands proved too large.

“Ah, too big,” he said.

“Oh, sorry, I have tiny hands!” I said regretfully, taking them back.

We looked down at the awkward lump of snow he’d been rolling.
“Are you making a snowman?” I asked.

“Yes,” he said. “Body,” he pointed at his lump. “Head,” he pointed across the bridge to his comrade, who was looking at us, his own awkward lump temporarily forgotten.

“It’s not round,” the boy said, “looks like triangle.”

It did—both lumps were stubbornly un-round. The snow was steadily stickier and compacted tightly, hard and cold, so that once packed there was no re-shaping it. And the attempts at smooth, round balls for body and head had resulted in oddly-shaped lumps with various points. The other boy’s looked vaguely like a pyramid.

“Oh, it’s okay, it’s hard to make it round,” I said, thinking of my own (failed) sleek spherical efforts with the tiny snow figure in the park. We looked down at the lumps, me tapping a clump of snow with my toe.

“Can I help?” I asked.

He agreed.

Thus commenced a delightful twenty minutes or so of labor, stooping and squatting in the snow to pack on, scrape off and shape the ugliest snowman I’ve ever seen.

Occasionally we spoke, but mostly we just worked and laughed.

The first boy spoke some English but the second did not, at least he chose to abstain. But we laughed a lot, me both at the absurd appearance of the snowman and the sheer oddity of the situation.

When did my life become randomly building a snowman with strangers on the middle of a bridge in South Korea?

A few passersby passed us by, individuals on foot or bicycles. Some looked amused at our antics, some barely glanced. How precious to belong to a company instead of receiving odd looks because of my odd looks!

The first boy mentioned Olaf, so I was naturally inspired to mold a carrot nose. But my sculpting skills have always been lacking, and the awkward cone I shaped was much more beaky than root-like. The second boy wanted him to have feet, so we tried to shape protruding bipeds, with the result of one foot vastly dwarfing the other. The snowman also had rather a pregnant belly and unfortunate bulges that might have been tumors.

After the majority of bodywork was finished, the first boy then gouged eyes and smile with his fingernail to form a bland, unthreatening face. Attempting to add personality I stroked in eyebrows, and made the snowman most threatening. With his beaky nose, menacing eyebrows and tiny ears that resembled devil-horns, in addition to the lumpy squat body, the snowman was truly an egregious, corpulent imp.

He would doubtlessly amuse and frighten passersby in equal measure.

How proud we were!

The boys were concerned for the snowman’s longevity beneath the sun’s debilitating rays, so the second boy stood behind him, holding his coat like a screen between the snowman’s back and the deadly sun. They wanted to move him to a safer location, but I believed him stuck fast, rooted firmly in the sticky snow from whence he’d been planted.

Unable to garner a photographer, the boys took turns taking their picture with the snowman, and then said I was next.

Thus somewhere in the city is a young man with a picture of me, a stranger whose name he doesn’t know, smiling behind our gargoyle snowman.

After that, I determined to leave.

“I will go now,” I said, stomping snow from my sneakers, very glad for my thick double-layered socks, “Thank you for letting me help!”

We smiled at each other and waved goodbye, and I turned again, continuing to laugh.

When I had exited the bridge and reached the riverside again, down the bank below the bridge, I looked back to see the boys’ progress.

They succeeded somehow in uprooting the snow gargoyle and were indeed moving him, one on each side, shuffling off to a new location in hopes of finding shade.

I wished to see reactions to that squat figure with his beak nose and sweeping eyebrows; I’ve no doubt he wrought smiles.

Thank God that we can all smile and laugh in the same language!

Living abroad is challenging and sometimes discouraging. My Korean language skills are incredibly lacking, such that I cannot successfully maintain a conversation or understand the majority of what is said to me.

But I can understand much because we are all people, and people are the same around the world.

We experience the same pains and pleasures, joys and hurts and fears and doubts and anticipations and loves. We are ceaselessly awed by mountains and waterfalls, discouraged by dismal weather, appreciative of hot food and delighted by games and art. We all love to play and to create, and in these we find common ground.

If we cannot speak each other’s languages we use gestures, expressions and pictures. We mime and we laugh and we speak with exaggerated emphasis. We have more fun, really, in this attempt to make ourselves understood. We let go our pride to make fools of ourselves, gesticulating and gaping in turn.

When you teach ESL you become very good at interpreting the unspoken. You convey your message and translate those of others—it’s necessary.

Once upon a time we all spoke the same language. After the Towel of Babel we scattered around the globe with our tongues suddenly discordant. But our nature remained constant.

Today we retain that nature God created in us, and if we look beyond the obvious, and cease complaining that we can’t understand due to accent or language, we can still find harmony.

Perhaps I cannot have an intellectual or highly intimate discussion with someone with whom I cannot speak, but we can enjoy each other’s company and make at least simple exchanges.

I once spent an hour alone with a Haitian woman who spoke no English, at a time when I’d forgotten all the Creole I knew. We shared laughter and love simply by being together, her cooking something delicious she wanted me to taste every few minutes, and me making appreciative signals.

My friend’s mother was convinced I knew Korean when I visited their home, impressed that I anticipated her intentions. Repeatedly I assured her words weren’t necessary.  

Every meeting with my Korean tutor is a Konglish adventure, while she attempts English explanation only to diverge into Korean, and I stumble through Korean phrases before slipping back to English.

Our host, her photographer friend in whose studio we meet and study, speaks almost no English whatsoever, and is one of the best pantomimers I’ve yet to meet. He signs almost everything, using ridiculous motions and dramatic expressions and making completely understandable sounds. I almost always know what he is saying, although he almost never says it with words.

Of course I want to increase my Korean capacity, but in the meantime I am so gratefully blessed with Korean folk who love me despite my incapacity, and with comprehension that needs no words.

Every day God gives me more understanding, and I always pray for wisdom not my own.

Being unable to rely on language, ever surrounded by strangers and foreign tongues can be intimidating, sometimes exhausting and overwhelming. But let us always remember we are people, formed in God’s image and made of the same emotions and incomprehensible complications.

Always let us keep our eyes open for common ground, and stop in our commutes to appreciate these commonalities.

I did not look that Friday for playtime in the snow with two strangers.

Usually I look ahead, think about what’s behind, and consider my own selfish intentions.

But God loves to surprise us.

Some people believe in coincidence. Some believe in fate. Some people believe that every small occurrence happens for a reason. Everything has purpose and significance.

I believe that serendipity is one of God’s delights. Sometimes the best occurrences are the unplanned, the spontaneous and wonderful, with persons previously unknown.

Life is not meant to be lived alone or according to plan. Life is meant to be serendipitous.

What other snow-gargoyles await in the future? I have no idea. But I am happy to find out. 

Entitled

I’ve been having a severe sense of entitlement lately.

Perhaps this unfortunate sentiment is exacerbated by the materialistic society in which I’m dwelling—a culture focused on appearance and fashion and accumulation of possession and accolades—but a large portion of the problem stems from myself.

I am naturally an incredibly selfish person. I think of myself before I consider anyone else, and the majority of my sentences yearn to begin with “I” and end with “me.”

Walking down the street or navigating the aisles of the supermarket or turning a corner or commencing a stairway, always I object to another’s presence. He or she or they are in my way. Their person is blocking my path and hindering my progress. My schedule is frustrated along with my nerves.

How dare another person be so audacious as to invade the same sidewalk, aisle, pathway or stairway as me! How dare she push her cart onto the moving ramp at e-mart and thus force me to stand idly behind her for the agonizingly slow 30-second ascent between floors?

How dare this pair of men shuffle up the path with their hands folded behind their backs while I vainly attempt to circumnavigate them and continue at my much brisker pace?

How dare this driver turn the corner without stopping so I might cross the road without stopping?

How dare anyone make me wait! How dare anyone hinder my plans! How dare the world not cater to my every whim and caprice!

These egregious offenses to my person are only the unspoken rages, a small part of the entitled attitude that often make me grind my teeth and clench my fingernails into my palms.

These are just the selfish thoughts that occur nearly every time I venture outside my apartment.

In the apartment I also experience such struggles: occasion when the water heater does not quickly enough provide steaming water for a shower; when the washing machine beeps the “tangle” alert, so I must pull apart my sopping knotted clothes and restart the machine to finish its spin-cycle; when the electric kettle takes a longer 60-seconds than usual; when drawers won’t close or boxes topple, when I clumsily drop something and spill liquid or rice grains all over the floor; when the wifi requires restarting or when Netflix stops streaming.

Any of these infinitesimal inconveniences at the wrong time can trigger a Hulk-Out moment, when I stomp my foot or slap my palm against some surface in agitation, grumbling against the immense struggles of my life.

First-world problems.

The other first-world problems plaguing me are even more shallow, of the severe materialistic nature.

Always I am looking for the gaps in my wardrobe, the barrenness of my floor, and the empty spaces in my passport.

When next I’m in a department store, or a dinky dollar-store, or worse, one of the innumerable corner convenience stores, I see things to add, to amend the gaps and spaces.

I see the mortar to fill those cracks, to further crowd my cozy apartment and bring me long-pursued happiness.

I want this and I want that. I want what certainly I do not need.

I want and I want and I want.

I will never have enough.

Like everyone, I suffer from the vacuum in my soul, forgetting at frightening frequency the only Satisfaction to be had is from Christ.

And this natural disgusting tendency of entitlement is heightened by my status as hagwon (private institute) teacher.

Last term was my first 6 AM schedule, and rife with challenges. Beyond the less than ideal necessity of rising before the sun and getting to work before 6, three of my four classes tested my patience with their poor attendance.

6 AM, most surprisingly and impressively, was the class with the best attendance. Consistently there were students present and ready before 6:00, seated with their books open before them before I even entered the classroom.

Although some arrived tardily, there were always students there to greet me and be greeted, every day.

At 7, 10 and 11, however, this was not always the case.

7:00 proved to be the most poorly attended class, and often had me tapping my foot as the minutes ticked by, postponing the start of the lesson in hopes that students would arrive.

Often class began, with the eventual arrival of a few students, at 7:15.

11:00 was the same way. After one student dropped the class, two ladies remained, and were always late.

Just like the wonderful woman who serves as my English-pupil and Korean-teacher, and my faithful friend, the two ladies seemed simply incapable of coming on time.

Having always been a severely punctual person, this tardiness offended me.

I could understand being late a few times, or perhaps in the beginning of term when adjusting to a new schedule.

But to be late every day, well after becoming accustomed to the commute and routine, such behavior was an affront.

How dare these students mar my timeliness!

Just like my dear Korean teacher, however, at these students I could not retain irritation.

For one, both were extremely eager to learn, and extremely impressive in their English capacity.

With them I could easily hold a conversation about any topic, and I would forget English was not their mother tongue.

More than once we diverged from the textbook to simply discuss: religion, politics, women’s rights, discrimination, social activism, men, marriage, art, history…

Although we did not agree on all things, particularly as one was a Buddhist and one uncommitted to any religion, teetering on Christianity, we certainly had good rapport, and they were always attentive to what I had to say.

More than once they complimented me on explanations of grammar and the Bible, saying that I was the best Biblical explicator they had yet heard, and our grammar lessons were thorough. (Praise God!)

They were very good tardy students, in short.

Also in their favor was the generosity.  I lost count of the number of occasions that one of these ladies brought in treats in place of timely arrival.

She brought chocolate, lollipops or caramels, cookies and doughnuts.

After a day-trip to a historical village, she presented me with a beautiful pin and bracelet of silver and pearl.

One day after ensuring that second-hand clothes did not offend me she gave me a well-packed canvas bag of clothes she deemed too tight or too “young” for her, none of which showed the least evidence of wear.

And she ceaselessly complimented me on my dress, accessories and general appearance.

In my other classes, I was gifted with treats occasionally as well.

Usually these were in the form of snacks, but I’ve received some pretty knickknacks as well, always unexpectedly and without particular occasion that I could tell.

On our final day of term, which is often referred to as “Party Day” and involves socializing over snacks rather than studying the textbook, I brought in muffins and tangerines, uncertain whether any students had intended on contributing to the communal grazing.

At 6 AM my ever-dependable three gentlemen were present, and after I’d directed us into a circle around the central desk of muffins and tangerines, my most diligent K brought forth a bag packed with pastries and sweet macchiato coffee-pouches.

(This is the student who had perfect attendance and was ever first in the class, despite a forty-minute commute to school. After class he went to work. Despite not scoring well-enough to pass to the next level, he retains remarkable good-humor, and studies incessantly.)

At 7 AM on Party Day after the usual ten or so minutes of delay, three students arrived, as promised. The first shared a bag of warm drinks, because it was cold outside, he said, and the second left us gaping as she pulled forth sweet treat after sweet pastry: expensive candies, a signature Korean treat (essentially donuts in small, square candy-form); two Bundt-style cakes made with rice flour and raisins, cheesy star-shaped cookies and brownie-like chocolate-filled cookies. This abundance was added to the previous class’ pastries.

Later that morning at 10 AM two ladies arrived to the classroom, both with contributions. One had packages of Pepperidge Farm cookies and one cartons of little walnut-bread. These are minute pastries with the texture of a pancake, moist and chewy, filled with sweet red-bean paste and a walnut. They are molded after a walnut shell.

One carton was to share. The other she presented to me. “This is for you,” she said, “Just for you.”

By the end of the morning my desk looked like a bakery—positively filled with left-over treats and sweets that would be impossible to consume alone.

The day before one of my 6 AM students, a dear and adorable older man, D, who should not have passed to the Level 3 class of which he was part, had requested we have lunch together.

He said he wanted to take me and the two teachers he knew taught at that time—I agreed.

That night, the night before the last day, I was miffed to learn from a co-teacher that my Level 5 students, the always tardy ladies, had invited her to lunch with them, along with some other students and another teacher.

“They didn’t invite me to lunch,” I said in surprise.

Afterwards I found the news annoying—how dare they not extend me, their teacher!, an invitation!

The fact that we hadn’t discussed plans for the following day at all did not really forefront in my mind, nor the fact that most likely I was invited regardless—my focus was only on, shockingly, myself.

(The next day we all grouped together, four teachers and six students, and my Level 3 student D paid for lunch for all of us.)

Entitlement.

I felt it.

I feel it.

Constantly.

In this materially minded world, I value my possessions far too much.

I worry excessively over the state of my bank account and begrudge every won spent, or rather every bit of won spent on something not my immediate gratification.

Entitlement.

It is as though I expect some beneficent person or being or perhaps my employer to pay for everything, to compensate every moment of my time and every minute expense.

And therein lies the problem: my time.

Time is not mine.

Nothing in this world is mine—not even my body.

All I’ve been give in a gift with which I have opportunity to use for good purpose.

At the commencement of this latest term we received two new teachers. Most new teachers face the struggle of stretching their funds until that triumphant first paycheck. We arrive, spend ten to twelve days in Orientation in Seoul, then are sent to our assigned schools and work for approximately three weeks before being paid. That accumulates to five weeks with no income, and three weeks living expenses of meals, possible furnishings or toiletries for a possibly barren apartment.

Money can become extremely tight.

To assist in this challenging transition, common practice among teachers is to cover a meal or two without thought of repayment, perhaps buy some odds and ends of necessities, school supplies or small amenities—this is the cycle. Most likely someone aided us in our uncertain beginning, and so we aid the incoming in turn.

These past few weeks we have all contributed to Zak and Bien. Zak, the returning teacher, was assigned role of coordinator, without his foreknowledge. Thus he has additional duties beyond teaching: he also has a daily religion class, overseeing and approving paperwork, and is representative between foreign teachers and Korean teachers, the Main Office, and the director. He is also responsible for Mission Day once a term and Reading Club on Saturday mornings.

Some of these duties are usually shared between other Missionary Teachers, teachers who are Seventh Day Adventist, but our branch hosts no others—Zak is the only SDA. This is clearly unjust.

Since my arrival in July I have been helping with Reading Club. I attended every Saturday whether I was leading that day or not, helping to explain or prompt discussion among students. Last term there were three of us to share the responsibility of procuring an appropriate article and leading the group. Now there are just us two.  

Recently I was feeling burdened under this bother, this accumulation of entitlement and bitterness. Always I seemed to be giving, always giving time, effort and money, and resentment began to flourish. Envy at the seeming lack of responsibility of my co-workers plagued me, and instead of serving from love, I felt I was serving my time and effort out of (grudging) obligation.

Certainly Christians have a duty to serve additionally, above and beyond what the world requires or expects, but we ought not to be serving with such resentment or sense of self-righteous martyrdom. But I felt these wretched things.

One morning I cried out to God to save me, because the bitterness was eating me from the inside-out. I was horrified at my own selfishness, and the idea that I was utterly bankrupt of love.

I was a miserable clanging cymbal.

“If I speak in the tongues of men and angels but have not love, I am only a resounding gong or a clanging cymbal. If I have the gift of prophecy and can fathom all mysteries and all knowledge and if I have a faith that can move mountains but have not love, I am nothing. If I give all I possess to the poor and surrender my body to the flames but have not love, I gain nothing.”

~1 Corinthians 13:1-3

How fortunate that God answers prayer, and blessed me with participation in a small group Bible study on discipleship. One lesson of following Jesus is understanding the cost; that cost may be physical wear or financial bankruptcy. It definitely entails occasional humiliation and rejection by the world, and continuing to give when all seems exhausted.

Because with this continuation of giving comes faith: growth of our own and proof to the world of its existence.

James reminds us practically that faith without works is dead, of no use to anyone. We cannot merely wish someone well, promise prayer, and take no action. “Suppose a brother or sister is without clothes or daily food. If one says to him, ‘Go, I wish you well; keep warm and well-fed,’ but does nothing about his physical needs, what good is it?” ~James 2:15-16

Similarly, we ought not solely give physically but pray earnestly and share the Good News, telling the reason we give. Perhaps a person can be generous on her own, perhaps some persons are move giving than others, naturally, but with Christ, we can overcome the fear of giving “too much,” and give with abandon.

Yesterday I was late to service at SDA, and missed the beginning of the sermon. But the part I did attend was of Mary, sister of Lazarus, pouring oil over the feet of Jesus as he dined. The surrounding party judged her, dismissed her as a sinful woman unworthy of the Teacher’s attention, but Jesus considered her action beautiful, and an excellent use of her money and emotional expense.

“When a woman who had lived a sinful life in that town learned that Jesus was eating at the Pharisee’s house, she brought an alabaster jar of perfume, and as she stood behind him at his feet weeping, she began to wet his feet with her tears. Then she wiped them with her hair, kissed them and poured perfume on them.” ~Luke 7:37-38

Some claimed that she ought to have donated the money she spent on such expensive perfume, providing for the poor. Some deemed her display unfit for the public: she ought not to make a scene before strangers.

Jesus dismissed all of these condemnations as petty. “She has done a beautiful thing to me.” ~Matthew 26:10

He said she had done right, and given a better gift than his host in her intimate washing of his feet: using her tears and hair and this exquisite perfume.

Pastor said that we ought to break our alabaster jars, to pour out our perfume on the feet of Jesus.

We’ve been given a variety of gifts. We all have time, talents and finances with which to be generous. Let us not hoard them, he said, not hold them close, but give with abandon.

Giving is not often easy. Sometimes we feel there is nothing left to give, everything has been expunged and we are empty.

But God always restores joy. He is there to fill our hearts with joy and love just as He filled water jars with the choicest wine.

“Give, and it will be given to you. A good measure, pressed down, shaken together and running over, will be poured into your lap. For with the measure you use, it will be measured to you.” ~Luke 6:38

Entitlement will ever be a struggle, particularly in this egregiously materialistic world where we are ever convinced we need the next fulfillment, the next assurance of our completion and happiness. But we will never be sated by products, technology, clothes, adorable shoes, spectacular meals, even magnificent vistas, adrenaline-pumping excursions, and the dearest relationships. Not by others’ praise or admiration will we find lasting comfort.

However, there is hope in giving. Giving beyond what the world expects or perhaps others consider healthy.

These past five months in Korea I have witnessed God’s provision again and again, and have always been treated with generosity, expected or unprecedented. How dare I not do all I can to pay forward the generosity and selflessness I have known, and in turn feel God restore joy to my heart.

And there, instead of entitlement, we are blessed with contentment. 

You Jin

Several weeks ago I was walking through the park back to work for my second shift.

The afternoon was golden and warm and the universe seemed most harmonious.

People were staring, as usual, but I took their stares as compliments to my sunlit golden hair and long trendy skirt.

My heart was light as my backpack and although I’d been up since before dawn I felt strong and not in dread of the portending junior classes.

In my headphones Ricky Martin was finishing up “Livin’ La Vida Loca,” a song about a woman who turns his world upside-inside out.

Almost through the park I looked over to see a woman huddled on one of the benches. Her shoulders were shaking. She could be laughing. But she seemed to be sobbing.

Her eyes met mine as I passed.

Passed by and kept walking, steps slowed but continuous.

What can I possibly say to her?

I can’t even speak Korean.

She’ll think I’m crazy.

She won’t understand me.

She’s a stranger.

I’m a stranger.

I have to go to work.

I don’t want to sit down and then rush off.

There’s nothing I can do for her.

I’m scared.

So went the logical voices of reason and cowardice and self-preservation inside my head.

And as my ponderous, conflicted steps approached the crosswalk, the song in my headphones changed.

Entering the mix of determined denial were words too apt to refute.

An argument too astute to ignore.

“When you feel like you’re alone in your sadness, and it seems like no one in this whole world cares, and you want to get away from the madness, you just call my name and I’ll be there.”

Third Day’s “Call My Name.”

A song that doesn’t command outreach or even mention God.

A song that could be a promise between any two people.

But a song that convicts—no one should be alone.

A song that tells me God never forsakes me, that He attends when I am silent and weeping or when I say His name aloud.

When I call and when I don’t, He is there. I know that.

But not everyone does.

Paul writes that God is not far from any of us. Sometimes it seems He is.

And many a lost soul has no idea of His proximity. Many doubt His very existence.

From where do these people get their hope?

From where do they maintain reason to live?

How do they even survive at all in this brutal world that is so often not the warm autumn sunshine?

“When you feel like you’re alone in your sadness, and it seems like no one in this whole world cares…”

How many people just passed her by, that woman weeping on the bench?

Across from a subway exit, this place was frequented all day long by passers-by, school children, business men and women, ajummas with their grocery carts and old men on their strolls. Young mothers with baby carriages and toddling children, teenagers with their gazes fixed on their phones.

How many of these had walked right by without stopping to even ask this woman if she needed help?

And would I be one of them?

God carried me to Haiti and back seven times. He rode with me to Missouri and flew with me to Paris. He stayed by my side through South Carolina, through heartache and pain and suicidal contemplations. He wept with me and sat with me.

He sang with me and rejoiced with me in victories and restoration.

He encouraged me into honesty and vulnerability and endured my rages, impatience and cursing.

He brought me to obstacles and then vaulted me over them, or held my hand and balanced my teetering feet on firm ground.

He brought me to Korea and walks with me every day.

He did not bring me so far so I could walk with blinders.

I knew that.

The idea that she might not know, the weeping woman on the bench, that thought turned my feet around and sent me back the way I had come.

The others walking through the park probably thought I was some foolish, lost tourist walking in circles, and my own cold logical side yearned to flee back to the crosswalk and carry on towards the school—the reason I’d come here in the first place, right?—but the grateful child loved by her Father persisted.

I wanted only to share the love I’d known with the woman before me.

I might be her only chance.

“Call my name, say it now. I want you to never doubt: the love I have for you is so alive.”

Okay, God.

Here I go.

I don’t know what to say.

I don’t know what to do.

Please help me.

She watched me approach.

When I’d passed I’d wanted to believe she wasn’t crying. I hoped now to see she was fine and well, just caught in a sneeze or laughing over a silly Kakao message.

But she was crying. And she was alone.

As I came closer, angling in towards her, she shook her head.

“No, I’m sorry,” she said.

Clearly she didn’t want me there.

But I hadn’t walked back those few hundred feet to back out now. The shortest distances are often the most difficult to cover.

“Are you okay?” I asked, because even when we know the answer, such are the words. So goes the eternal script of human outreach.

She nodded, tears still leaking out of her eyes.

“Because you look very sad,” I said, leaning in, drawing one hand down in front of my face. So goes the behavior of an ESL teacher: you will forever use pantomime and slow deliberation, whether addressing a beginning student or native speaker.

She tried to smile, the way we try to hold up the flower with the broken stem by propping it on the vase-rim just so. The flower always droops right back down and no one is fooled; there was no light in her pooling eyes.

“Can I pray for you?” I asked, touching her shoulder.

“No,” she said.

Oh, well this is awkward.

Well, God, I tried.

I’d never had someone refuse a prayer before.

Whether a believer or not, in times of desperate heartache, people will accept any possibility of betterment, even prayers to a God they don’t acknowledge.

This woman said no.

Now what?

Upon reflection, I don’t think she meant to reject prayer. She simply wanted to convey her lack of need. She didn’t want to bother anyone. She didn’t want to weep in front of a stranger. She didn’t want anyone to see her cry.

We never do.

But sometimes a stranger is better than a friend.

Assured we will have no further contact, that in the jungle of concrete we are safe from their witness, we disregard decorum.

Regardless, she said no to my request, and I did not want to push upon her a prayer for my own benefit.

(How often do we pray to please our own ears, or impress those listening, rather than for intimacy with God?)

Regardless, I stayed.

Because no one should have to cry alone.

“When you feel like you’re alone in your sadness…”

Moving sideways towards the remaining bench space, I asked if I could sit down.

I sat, backpack on and phone still in hand, music paused.

She sat, legs crossed and one hand holding a cigarette still shaking. Tears still coming, along with the occasional shuddering sob, muffled but wracking her hunched shoulders.

I sat and contemplated the tragedy of life.

How many people sit alone with no hope, no prospect of tragedy’s termination, no light at the end of their dark tunnel?

Beside the woman I murmured prayers.

I don’t know who she is or what she’s going through, God, but you know and you can help her.

I don’t know what to do. You know. Comfort her.

Help me to help her.

Give me words.

She looked at me and looked away.

I suspected she was experiencing the same inward struggle as I—wanting to both tell me to mind my own business and to sob her problems onto my shoulder.

So I sat beside her, murmuring.

Then I was quiet.

I stared out towards the sunny park, admiring the blue boundless sky that reached far beyond the apartment tops, relished the breeze kissing my face and the green of the trees and the grass.

My soul was quiet.

After a minute or two I spoke words of reason.

Shaking my phone gently I asked, “Can you call someone?”

I did not want her to be alone, nor did I have words for her. I hoped someone she knew could comfort her in her own language and watch over her. Also I had only a few minutes before I had to move on—I had to teach class.

The woman nodded and reached for the phone.

Classic misunderstanding.

Unsure what to do I simply obeyed the natural gesture, and tapped the Contacts tab.

I opened up a new contact page for her and handed over the phone.

She began to enter in her phone number while hiccupping tears. Her shaking fingers tapped numbers into the name space.

“Here,” I said, and tapped the space below. She corrected her mistake and typed in her name first, then her number.

 “You Jin Joung?” I read.

I saved her contact and then called her. We watched her phone ring with the unknown caller, phones in our laps.

I ended the call.

“I’m Rachel,” I said.

“Rechel?”

She saved my number.

She began to ask me questions. I answered willingly because I was afraid to ask questions of her, this solitary weeping woman.

This woman who could have been anywhere from 25 to 35, with her smooth tanned skin and lush caramel hair pushed back from her face oversized sunglasses. This woman with thick sweeping lashes and wide eyes and unstoppable tears.

She wore an oddly childish t-shirt dress, gray and casual, hitched up high on her crossed legs. A massive purple bruise blighted one thigh. Her feet were bare, free of the high-wedged plastic sandals with leopard print soles.

“Where from?” she asked.

“Mi-gook saram,” I replied, “American.”

“Job?”

“Son sang-nim,” I said. “Teacher.”

“Family?”

“In the United States.”

“You are alone?”

“I have new family in Korea. New friends.”

“You have friends?”

“Yes.”

“How many friends?”

I had to contemplate this one.

“Three,” I answered, holding up three fingers.

She nodded.

“You go to church?”

“Ne. Yes.”

“I don’t have church, just Jesus.”

Praise God.

Then she asked the inevitable question.

“Why Korea?”

I hesitated and looked around at the sun-soaked park again. The rustling green trees and the soaring blue sky, the fluttering, puttering pigeons in their magnificent diversity, no two alike.

I recalled the answers I always give: money, experience, a good place to start.

And I said something new. “This is where I need to be.”

I looked at her wide brown eyes. “Sometimes Jesus says ‘Stop, Stay.’ Sometimes he says go.”

She nodded and started sobbing again, her shoulders shaking and tears pouring out.

I don’t know if those words struck true or echoed some conflict in her soul, or if they merely coincided with another fit of sadness, in the way grief washes in predictable yet disarming as the tide.

We shared perhaps fifteen minutes together, and then I had to rise for class.

“Will you come with me?” I asked, pointing to my watch. “I have to go to school now.”

I had told her I had a little time before teaching.

She nodded and stood up, discarded her cigarette and slipped on her sandals. Together we left the bench and headed for the crosswalk, me already considering what I would say to Jack and Sienna at the reception desk. Perhaps I could just lead her right into the staff room and sit her at my desk, away from anyone’s gaze, at least until classes changed.

But at the crosswalk she stopped.

“I go home,” she said.

“You’ll go home?” I raised my eyebrows. “Okay. Call me if you need me,” I said.

I wondered if ever again I’d hear from this woman, who for some reason I still had no idea was crying on a deserted park bench in the middle of the afternoon rather far from her home.

She nodded and I bent to give her somewhat of a hug.

“Good luck,” I said and then we parted.

She walked away down the sidewalk and I crossed the street, recommencing my commute.

Across the road going up the sidewalk I told God I didn’t want His job.

“You listen to that all day long. You hear people crying and witness tragedy constantly. I could never do it.” I clenched my hands. “I would die from grief—I’d suffocated under the weight of all that misery!

“Thank you, God,” I breathed, “for being who You are.”

A few days later I texted her, You Jin, greeting her in Korean and introducing myself.

“Annyeonghaseyo! It’s Rachel from the park. How are you?”

I didn’t expect a reply but prayed for her, and shared our brief encounter with a few people. I both wanted to talk about You Jin and our unorthodox meeting, and to keep the encounter entirely to myself.

It’s been over a month since we met.

Tonight as I was reaching the end of my solitary enjoyment of Back to the Future III, I received a Kakao talk message from an unrecognized name.

“Who is You Jin?” I asked myself, trying to recollect if this was a student or church member or some other acquaintance.

“Hi,” she said, this unknown person.
“Hello,” I answered, “How are you?”

“Fine. Thank you.”

“Have we met?” I asked.

“In Daejeon,” she answered in Korean.

“Where?”

“At the park. Bench.”

I had time only to type “Oh!” (as my Korean typing is exorbitantly slow) before my phone began ringing. The caller was You Jin Joung.

We had a delightful brief conversation.

Her English is better than I remember, or perhaps she simply speaks better when she is not miserable.

She is in Seoul, she said, with family.

“Alone, in Daejeon,” she said, “Family in Seoul.”

“Oh, good. Very good.”

(Obviously I am very adroit at conversation.)

“I like Ray-eechel. First American friend.”

“I am so happy to hear from you! You sound good?”

“Oh, really?”

“You sound happy.”

She did.

We concluded this brief exchange with prospect of further communication.

“I call Ray-eechel sometimes. Ray-eechel is my friend.”

“Yes, I would like that.”

“Okay, I will go now.”

“Okay, have a good night.”

“You also, have good night.”

“Okay, bye!”

“Bye.”

I don’t know as I will ever meet You Jin again in person. She has moved back to Seoul where apparently she has family; she is not alone.

I am not sure if she will call often or if our exchanges will develop beyond extremely small talk. If my Korean improves then this is quite possible.

I don’t know what is happening in her life or what was happening that led to her isolated misery on that park bench in the midst of sunshine and busyness.

But God knows and God knew.

I pray that I will always follow God, off the course of my own schedule and away from the expected and comfortable. I pray that nothing will ever be more important than sharing His great love.

We cannot know the full impact of our actions or our words. Sometimes we will never see the after-effects of our interactions or fruits of our labors.

Jesus did not promise us immediate results, earthly recognition or a nicely typed report cataloging cause and effect.

He did promise us the Spirit to give us words when we have none and boldness before the unknown. And He promised that if we call on His name, He will answer. If we seek Him, we will find Him.

“Just call my name and I’ll be there…the love I have for you is so alive.”

I don’t always go out of my way or perceive the lost and desperate before my eyes. But when I do, God pours blessings of love, peace and joy over me with abundance so that no matter the awkwardness, the delay or the physical discomfort, those few minutes or hours spent beside someone in need are far better than whatever I had planned.

“I’ll give you all that your heart could ever want, and so much more.”

Praise God for being who He is, able to hear the sound of every breaking heart, catch every falling tear and answer every unspoken call.

The love He has for us is so alive. 

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=oLc_nJGxvWc

Doing my Best

I have much to say but am simply too exhausted to write more than a few highlights. 

Last week was our final full week of this term: tomorrow we have the ultimate three days, then recuperate (hopefully) with a four-day weekend before commencing the final term of 2015 on Monday, November 3.

On Wednesday our co-worker Bradly had his baby, a beautiful little girl named Chloe. He has been on his paternity-leave since then and will return this Wednesday; thus we have been splitting his classes between us. My allotted duty is teaching his 8 AM Level 1 Adult class. 

They are a cheerful group, an agreeable four students who generally alleviate the stress of an extra class by their congenial natures. 

I had the responsibility on Wednesday of giving and grading their Final Tests, which was actually a pleasant task, as I could share in the pride of seeing a majority of high scores. 

There is particular satisfaction in observing the progression of Level 1 students, some of whom commence the class with the bare capability of maintaining conversation, and who complete the course with eagerness to talk in casual English. 

Hoorah for successfully passing students!

Of course I also gave my own four adult classes their Final Tests on Wednesday, and had the not-so-pleasant witness of some not-so-good scores, and the looming necessity of telling those students they must repeat the course.

Oh, to be the bearer of bad news, such is truly a burden we wish not to bear. 

We teachers also had the delightful task of writing comments for all of our Junior students this week: playing the euphemism game where we somehow convey honest feedback with positive language. 

I deliberated over phrasing as one attempts to solve a brain-teaser, tapping out and deleting words in even amounts. 

Determined to be honest and helpful, I commented constructively and noted positive characteristics of each student. 

Some of my Juniors have attitudes that could use adjusting, and cannot seem to speak respectfully no matter how I try to appease them with entertaining or simplistic adjustments to the curriculum.

No matter if I laugh off their sass or award them candy along with their perhaps more deserving classmates, no matter if I aid them with other assignments, spell out words or give hint after hint, there is simply a disconnect between gratitude and attitude. 

"I did the best I could," I said to my Korean co-teacher with whom I share my favorite class of fourteen-year olds.  

(You can decide yourself if the word "favorite" is used sarcastically.)

Like all Junior classes, this one is thirty minutes, and is usually comprised mostly of me calling on students to be quiet and do some work, at least write a few sentences!

Such wasted time is true agony to my serious teaching spirit which longs to attend to those students who would actually benefit from my assistance, rather than becalm the six boys making the room echo with their raucous cries and slaps.

"I did the best I could," I said to Jason, exiting the room Thursday night as he entered.

"Yeah, you did," he said in return. 

Usually after departing the classroom with best wishes and promise to see them again next time, always in positive if not beaming tones, I descend to the staff room and shake my head at Jason.

"They're just so frustrating," I say. 

But I always try.

This term I have tried.

And still some of those students refused to work.

Still some of those grammar concepts did not stick. 

Still some Juniors say "Does he has brown hair?" instead of my constantly reiterated "Does he HAVE brown hair." 

Still some cannot read the words of the dialogue without stumbling.

Still they forgo articles.

And still, some of my adult students failed their Final Test. 

Despite my advice and admonitions to ask for help, to practice with the workbook and listen to the recordings, to prepare ahead of time for Term Project and bring me their scripts for editing, despite all my reminders and encouragement, still they did not.

I cannot control them. 

My responsibility is not to babysit them or micromanage their lives. My job is not to tell them what to do or scold them when they do not listen (the adults, at least.)

My job is not to shame them when they are incorrect or shake my head when they make the same mistakes over and over again. 

My job is never to laugh at their efforts.

My job is to say, "Repeat after me," "Listen and repeat," "Let's try it again," "One by one," "It sounds like this," "Remember, articles are very important in English," "These words are irregular....."

My job is to encourage them every day, through every exercise, and especially on the days when success seems impossible.

My job is to smile at them in the morning when it's dark and chilly and rainy, when we're tired and the lesson is dull.

My job is to welcome them to class when they're tardy and ask them how they are doing.

My job is to refer to the book but mold the lesson to their needs.

My job is not to throw up my hands in defeat and dismiss the class as hopeless.

My job is to roll my shoulders and say, "Okay, let's try something else."

My job is to say, "Well, you all are having trouble focusing today so let's do something more fun..." and find that amusement.

My job is to tell them, "Stand up and stretch!" and gather them in a circle, get them moving and thinking in English away from their desks. 

My job is sometimes to look ridiculous so they laugh, and remember. 

My job is to do the best that I can, more than I can, as I have to constantly ask for help, and just never give up.

Some of them will repeat the course--but they won't fail. 

They will try again. And so will I.

"Well, that's not working. So let's try something else..."

That's my job.

Praise God, He reaches us wherever we are. 

Praise God that He is not far from any of us (Acts 17:27).

My job, as a teacher, is not to be far from my students.

My job is to do whatever they need to succeed--even if that means teaching them again. 

And as I feel inferior, here for four months and still unable to say how old I am or how I am doing or even understand 98% of the Korean language, while around me are foreigners from around the world who learned Korean from English-Korean classes, having studied English as their second or third language. 

As I feel overwhelmed in my social awkwardness, shy and boring, as I feel gawped at like an animal in a zoo, as I feel too worn out to think or hold open my eyes, God reminds me of joy.

This morning at church a sister prayed for the congregation.

Not every day is happy or joyful, she said, but every day is a blessing, and every day there is a reason for joy.

God has saved us and is with us. 

The work is hard, the hours are arduous and often there is no one to affirm I'm doing it right.

But I will keep doing the best that I can, because I'm not just working for myself, or for one student, or even all the students. 

I am working for God, and praying that through these efforts, He may reach hearts. 

"Whatever you do, work at it with all your heart, as working for the Lord, not for men." ~Colossians 3:23

For Mom

October 17.

The year is 1963….

Forget that. The year is unimportant. Taking precedence is the event: the nascence of life, specifically, the life of one little girl.

She says that she was a fat baby. I agree with her father in saying she was “pleasedly plump.”

After the baby-fat was shed she would never be chubby again.

She is ever slim.

She’s great at public speaking. In high school her professor was unsure how to handle her superior skill; she was leagues above the rest of her nervous, stuttering classmates. In a world where the general public fears public speaking more than death, this is indeed impressive.

Her sewing skills also developed early and with fanfare: her high school Home Ec teacher was impossible to please but she nevertheless learned to cut and pattern clothes, capable of producing charming outfits from yards of plain fabric.

When my brothers and I were young she would often dress us in matching outfits she had made, ensembles in which we’d be photographed for special occasions.

She (almost) never smiles with her teeth for photographs. She smiles with lips closed over imperfect but not unpleasant teeth.

She’s never had a cavity.

She can sing soprano.

Before the age of twelve she finished piano lessons, so she can play, but not elaborately. Playing piano for a church service is never her first choice, and is preceded by arduous hours of preparation, refusing to curse but coming close.

She’s got a much better vocabulary than the popular four-letter words.

She saves her voice for song and for teaching.

She’s taught every grade and subject, from toddling youngsters to graduating seniors. She’s led Bible studies and directed vast programs, overseeing every detail of Vacation Bible School, Sunday School and Youth Group. She substitute taught in the local school districts and chaperoned our field trips.

She’s a hostess. She always welcomed our friends and kept an open house.

She became pseudo-mother to more than one youth, and is proud still today to be called Mom by those she didn’t birth.

She is also proud to elaborately decorate the house for hosting, particularly at Christmastime, when she fills the place with lights, candles, greens, and delicious scents.

She bakes a lot for holidays. She makes pies with superior crust and filling,  and can spend hours on her feet making cookies, bars, macaroons, cakes, pies and her favored chocolate-dipped coconut balls.

She enjoys sweet things, even white chocolate.

She never drinks alcohol. She has perhaps the world’s lowest tolerance and won’t touch even wine. Yet she enjoys tomato juice.

She’s a homebody. She’s always lived within 50-miles of home, save for one errant semester in Virginia. She’s comfortable there, at home, producing and creating: magnificent cards and paper arts that shame Hallmark, scrapbook pages fit for frames, cross-stitches and quilts and table-runners to give as gifts, and occasionally dresses, vests, bathrobes and pajamas. Outside she likes the gardens: weeding and pruning, staining the knees of her pants to raise beauty from the earth.

She starts her day with coffee, vitamins, and her Bible.

Her large mug she fills half with coffee, half with pseudo-cream, no sugar. She’s dependent on this caffeine dose; without it she can expect a migraine.

Actually she is prone to migraines and spells of dizziness without seeming cause.

Despite these debilitations, however, she perseveres.

She’s dependable. She’s punctual. No, she’s early. She will always be ahead of schedule. She will come to school or church or rehearsal whether the weather is fair or foul, whether the roads are heavy with snow or slick with ice.

She maintains the tenacity of the postal service ideal.

She loves brain teasers and word games. She loves using logic to solve puzzles. She enjoys Canasta and Solitaire on the computer. She likes Yahtzee and Scrabble.

She’s read everything Elizabeth Peters has ever written; she’s partial to tales of ancient Egypt.

Her mind candy is Young Adult fantasy: she’s a fan of Twilight and The Hunger Games, Divergent and other realms of vampires and teenage drama.

She likes to go to bed early and get up well-past dawn. But she never sleeps well: there’s always a book ready at her bed-side.

She doesn’t have a smart phone nor demonstrates interest in obtaining one. She texts with precision with her sliding keyboard.

She’s recently become comfortable using a webcam.

Her favorite color is purple and her favorite flower the pink and white tiger lily.

She loves their fresh scent as well as their speckled petals.

She enjoys walking but can’t walk fast.

She can roller skate and ice skate but rarely does either.

She has the unfathomable patience to sit and stitch pictures with thin threads, forming masterpieces from innumerable tiny crosses; to trace, cut and piece together uncountable bits of fabric into a bed-size quilt of eye-arresting patterns; to bead tiny pearls and sequins onto the bodices of gowns; to stitch pockets and embellishments on vests; to sort 1,000 puzzle pieces from jumble to image; to measure, mark, cut and layer, emboss and fold hundreds of cards to gift and sell well below their worth; to sit with a student and go over the alphabet, the grammar, the number line, the math problem, over and over until a light bulb clicks on.

She is a person of indescribable complexities.

She’s terrified of snakes: even one flattened in the road makes her cringe.

She likes her bacon crispy and her favorite pizza is alfredo chicken, mushroom and broccoli from Fremont House of Pizza.

She appreciates good a cappella because she knows firsthand how difficult it is to sing.

She knows most hymns by heart. Only for the truly obscure does she need to glance at the hymnal.

She detests gory movies and is sensitive to touching ones.

She loves Gone With the Wind in book and movie form, The Ten Commandments and classic musicals.

She reads constantly, but always starts the day with her coffee and Bible.

She doesn’t like her birthday, or Mother’s Day.

For the first time last year she permitted hair dye to lighten her locks with a few highlights. Perhaps her hair is not as bright as it once was; there are a few silver streaks now.

Today we recognize that she is now one year older, not as young as she once was.

She’s an empty-nester, now, three children grown (sort-of) and moved out of the house.

Yet still she works full-time, teaching Monday through Friday from 8 AM until 3:15 PM. She teaches Sunday school each week and sings in the choir, attends service on Saturday and Bible study Thursday nights.

She’s a good correspondent and always ready to mail a package around the world.

She doesn’t say “I love you.”

She lives those words every day, instead.

So today, we wish her Many Happy Returns, thinking how blessed we are to know her.

Perhaps your birthday is not your favorite day, but we are glad you were born, Mom, and thankful for all the chances we’ve had to spend with you.