Renewed

Spring has come.

The earliest blossoms I saw are minute blue flowers. Pale and soft baby blue, perfectly formed, every one. Gradating in the same pattern: three blue petals and a singular white-spotted one. Beside the river from among the winter yellow grasses they spring, so every trek beside shallow water rife with Blue Herons, Snowy Egrets, and ducks large and brown, mallards with brilliant blue heads and tiny wood ducks, every step with downcast eyes finds the evidence of rebirth. These blue babes birth in the New Season.

The first fragrance I smelled came on a warm breeze. Sweet, welcome and surprising as chocolate chips in oatmeal. Magnolias, brilliantly pure and spread like dancer’s skirts. Their thick, hardy petals scented somewhere close to vanilla. Most lovely at night when their moonbeam hue opposes the sapphire dusk.

Forsythia spreads yellow sunshine along river and streets. Cheery, bold, and brass against the monotonous winter brambles. The famous cherry blossoms uphold their reputation as the Glory of the Season. Bursting forth in snowy cascades, softening the queerly spiny branches of their sooty stems. They now adorn the streets as pearls and quartz, ever decreasing the dreary winter palette.

And in park and forest, where russet and charcoal crowd in the austere dark green of conifers, magenta Rhododendron flashes: a color not to be ignored.

Friday I retreated to the forest, unintentionally. My plan was to complete a trail only ever begun. So commenced under impressive April sun, quickly sweating off my first layer, feet faithfully setting onto the intended trail, and promptly setting off again to a curious ascent winding out of sight. There brown and green enclosed me and the city faded blue behind. But those cheeky  magenta rhododendron met me every few feet, waving as genial neighbors calling salutations from their front yards.

It was quiet. City sounds were replaced by shifting breezes and gentle birdsong--food for my weary soul.

Then there came an audacious rustling of leaves as I crested an arduous rise. Expecting perhaps a squirrel or a particularly raucous jay, instead my roving eyes found the deer.

Little, with diamond-ears and so short I thought of a rabbit, tawny brown as the leaves around her. She picked her dainty way onto the trail ahead of me, the breeze acting in my favor, blowing away my trace. So I watched her with a smile, our distance respectful.

But after a moment the overwhelming influence of my generation made me reach for my phone and align her in the camera’s frame. She promptly stepped off the path and was lost to sight among the brambles. A lady always knows when to leave.

I haven’t been much of a lady lately.

These past months I’ve acted on whims and given little thought to consequence. I’ve been brash, callous and selfish and embarrassingly responsible for a lot of heartbreak and stress. These months have shined light on the shadows of doubt of my maturity; I’m not nearly as wise and discerning as I thought.

Those who love me with the loyal love of ages offer comfort, urging me not to blame myself. They say we should spread the fault among other parties. Perhaps there is fault to be shared, and blame is not often accurately placed—but I know that I did wrong. Whether others should share in my penance is not for me to say: I can only admit my own selfishness and bow my head with shame, repeating steady as the tears: mea culpa, mea culpa, mea culpa. I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m sorry.

So these past weeks have been a show of Grace.

Grace as lovely and as unexpected as the dainty steps of that deer. As rounding another brown corner of the trail to see an orchard open before me: a distant greening hill lit with snowy cherry blossoms.

Grace as powerful and comforting as the afternoon sunshine shot with ruffling breezes. I’ve been as overwhelmed by grace as I have by the sudden onset of spring.

My life has been a stream of sins and disappointing actions that let down peers, teachers, friends, family, and especially my Father. I’ve done some good things to bring comfort or joy, and maybe there have been enough good deeds to cancel out most of the mistakes.

At least, that was my thinking.

We are taught from Sunday School single digits that salvation cannot be earned, that we are sinners black as coal that need washing red with blood to be made white as snow (what is black and white and red all over?), and we church-goers profess understanding that good deeds are the product of faith but not our measure of worth. So often we repeat this adage—but do we believe it?

Perhaps not.

Because we live in a world where love must be earned.

We earn love through performance and deliberation, through gifts and compliments. We expend every effort we can to earn that love. Love fulfills us.

When love is not earned we are perplexed, depressed and defeated.

Despite everything, sometimes we cannot earn love. Unrequited we quit. Even one unreturned affection is devastating. Our failure is complete.

Many Christians strive to earn God’s love.

We perform acts of service, attend events, arrive early and stay late to set up and clean up, cook extra, sing loudly and pay our tithes. We give our time and our money and our talents.

Yet we still worry. We still pray with tears and trembling hands. We still sing the words “wretch like me” with emphasis. We know we are still not good enough.

Then we make a mistake. We blunder, create problems too big to handle, watch our decision spread like venomous ripples to harm others, even those we care for.

That’s when we know we’ve failed utterly. We’ve definitely lost God’s love.

How can we ever earn it back?

Several weeks ago I listened to a sermon called “Stupid Love.”

The title made us all chuckle, and most of us agreed that love is nonsensical and unpredictable. Can’t control who you love. Love makes you do silly things.

But the accompanying story wasn’t about romance. It didn’t tell the foibles of some smitten boy or some desperate woman. Rather, it told of a man’s hindered pursuit of God.

Attending a pastoral training, he set about to grow closer to God.

He planned time for prayer, Scripture reading, and worship through song.

While praying one day, he heard God speak clearly.

“Stop praying.”

Bewildered but convicted, he ceased his prayer.

A few days later he was reading the Bible, faithfully abstaining from prayer.

While reading he heard God speak clearly.

“Stop reading.”

Bewildered, disappointed, but convicted, he ceased his reading.

A few days later he was singing praise, faithfully abstaining from prayer and Scripture reading, grateful that he had this one outlet left to God. He especially loved singing.

While singing he heard God speak clearly.

“Stop singing.”

Agonized but convicted he ceased singing.

A few days later he was in a prayer room surrounded by cheerful peers, other believers who had experienced break-through, special communion with God that pushed them deeper into their faith. There was joy and progress.

He was miserable.

Wrestling with the bizarre and confining commands he’d heard, his temper rose and he threw his Bible across the room. He stormed out.

A few days later he was still in anguish.

While fuming and trying to hold in his misery and confusion, he heard God speak clearly.

“Now do you understand?”

He listened.

“Do you understand why I had you stop praying, stop reading the Bible, and stop singing?”

He kept listening.

“Even if you don’t do any of those things, I still love you.”

He kept listening, astonishment replacing the misery.

“No matter what you do, I will love you.”

He was speechless, astounded and perhaps still anguished, but anguished over his previous anger. Anguished over his past mistakes and his own lack of merit.

I know I was, I am.

Stupid love.

Love undeserved, unwarranted, even often unwanted.

God’s love pours out for us constantly. We ignore it or even run from it. We turn to anything, everything, for comfort, but reject the only true solution to our lonely brokenness.

We just cannot fathom a love that is not earned.

This Sunday I listened to another sermon about love.

This one was called “Love is Verb,” and cited Romans 12, verses 9 through 21, where Paul outlines actions of love, and actions not of love. The verses are impossible. We are ordered to bless our enemies, to bless our persecutors: to sincerely pray for God’s favor on those intentionally hurting us. This is beyond tolerance or even forgiveness: this is affirmative action on our enemies’ behalf. Enemies who hate and harm us without just cause.

We are called to love like Jesus.

But Jesus was perfect.

With God’s power he loved and loves us. He asked pardon for his torturers and demanded no apology from his friends who abandoned him, denied him in his time of desperate need.

He took the thief, the prostitute, the life-long sinner, the pinnacle of mistakes and selfishness, he took them in and loved them as he loved the righteous, those who spent their lives serving others.

Jesus told the famed story of the Prodigal Son (Luke 15:11-32). Here we see a breath-taking example of God’s love for his errant children, running to meet them when they look for Him, and serving up the best of His house for their undeserved comfort.

Lesser discussed is the elder brother of the wayward son. He stays at home, obedient and hard-working. He labors in his father’s fields and makes no demands. He is angry at the injustice done to his father, and understandably bewildered when his ill-behaved little brother is treated so well upon his return.

This elder brother stews in his wrath outside while in the house there is a celebratory feast for the brother previously lost to the world.

The father begs his elder son to join the party, to understand his joy at regaining his son—they should celebrate together. But the elder son is obstinate.

Why should he not have been so well-treated all this time he was obedient. Why should we not have preferential treatment for our good works? Why should God bestow such generosity upon the bad people of the world, those who murder, who rape, who steal, who worship in cults, who do drugs, who drink, who sleep around, who pirate music, who go over the speed limit, who don’t tithe every month, who have wine at dinner, who talk badly of their neighbor, who don’t spend hours in fasting and prayer….

Of course we are all sinners. We are all bad people in need of grace. Even Jesus said no one is good but God. Despite the impressive number of good works we may do, we still accumulate a disastrous, maleficent impressive number of sins: selfish impulses, unkindnesses, rude comments, lies, thefts, betrayals and all their dirty kin.

Fortunately for us, God keeps no record of our sin (Psalm 130:3). He graces us every day with new mercy and a fresh chance to make better choices (Lamentations 3:22-23). He uses our every blunder to demonstrate His glory (. And no matter that tally of black marks, He never loves us less.

Stupid love. Stupid love without explanation or rationale. Stupid love as overwhelming as the beauty of spring, as invigorating, revitalizing and breathtaking.

The same Artist who designed each minute blue petal of those perfectly gradated riverside flowers, who added purple sheen to the magpie’s feathers, who sculpted the heron’s neck to that graceful S-curve, who tinted the cherry blossoms bashful pink and who daily paints the sky for sheer delight—this same magnificent Artist paints our souls fresh.

Despair is impossible under the boughs of a cherry tree dropping blossoms to the breeze like snow, outlining the blue sky above and scenting the air with sweetness.

Rather the encompassing beauty of this renewed world is further reminder of God’s grace.

I have made mistakes, I’ve acted badly, unladylike and graceless, but for no reason I have been forgiven.

For the ashes of my culpability, I’ve been given beauty.

For my mourning, I’ve been given joy (Isaiah 61:3).

Stupid love.

So now there is nothing left to say but Thank You. To sing out my praises of gratitude and look forward to the future sunshine.

There is rain today, typical of spring time; many delicate blossoms have been knocked down from their limbs and now lie crushed on the sidewalk.

Thank God we are not cherry blossoms.

When we are knocked down and trodden on, we may feel crushed, but we are not destroyed (2 Corinthians 4:8-9). Our lives are not so brief or so simple. They are complex and heartrending and anguished with torrential rains, tornadoes and hailstorms. They are also rife with balmy sunshine, fragrance, and insurmountable love: stupid love.

So I, with the graceful, generous aid of loving hands around me, have picked myself up off the concrete and will start my trek anew.

Thank you, God. I will do better next time.

“You take our failure, you take our weakness, you put your treasure in jars of clay. So take this heart, LORD, I’ll be your vessel: the world to see your light in me.

Amazing Grace, how sweet the sound, that saved a wretch like me. I once was lost, but now I’m found, was blind, but now I see. I can see You now, I can see the love in your eyes. Laying yourself down, raising up the broken to life.”~  “Broken Vessels” Hillsong United

Significant Events

I haven’t written in a long time.

Like most, my intentions were good and ambitions strong.

Before the New Year I was going to reflect upon 2015 in its trials and surprises, woes and joys. However, with the commencement of 2016 there was heartache and shame, and the urge to share diminished. With the progression of the year, and the dependable passage of time, heartache and shame themselves diminish and the urge to share again grows. As the past month and a half have been particularly emotionally active for me, I considered posting about these forays—delightful and heartbreaking.

However last night I was working on applications for internships after my year-long stint in Korea is finished (possibly for good), and was writing of “experiences which have significantly impacted” my life.

This topic is maddeningly broad without any pale by which to measure length or depth, but I did my best, attempting to write briefly (is this possible?) of some of the most poignant moments in Haiti, both because the internship is in Haiti, and because the majority of my most memorable, impactful experiences have indeed occurred in Haiti.

From among those painful joys there came another experience far from Haiti and not really about me at all. I was merely a witness.

It was my brother Peter’s baptism. Many people were there to witness him and a number of other believers be lowered into the water and raised again, proclaiming boldly their repentance and commitment to Christ. However, of the many raised from the water to cheers and amens, few shared their testimony before the rather daunting audience (the large Durham Evangelical Church was packed, with standing room only). Peter was one who shared.

Up there in that tank he spoke out in his booming voice, baring his soul. He told of his descent into addiction, the miserable mess of lies and deceit that brought him to despair. But there at the bottom he finally accepted help. Pete said he started attending a group with other strugglers, began hanging around good-timing people who didn’t need substances to party, whose joy was constant because of Christ. He began to change.

Months later here he was, on stage before a crowded body, proclaiming he was finished with that old life and old self and ready to live for God. “My chains are gone, I’ve been set free,” he agreed. He was lowered into the tank and pulled up again, shaking water from his hair like a dog.

In the audience of witnesses, many cried. I did, too.

Actually I sobbed.

I had to exit the sanctuary and sit on the stairwell for a few minutes before I could breathe well enough to reenter the crowd.  

The miracle of Pete’s redemption was made all the more potent because of his contrast to another young man I’d heard of. This was also a military man. A good older brother who loved and harassed his sister, hung out with some questionable folks but was universally liked, popular and able to draw a crowd wherever he went. He was also an addict. Not a serious one, perhaps, not wasted away or always shut up. But he used and it was risky.

One night he used too much.

The friends he was with were too high to comprehend how serious the situation, too scared to risk calling an ambulance for their unresponsive buddy when they would all get busted.

By the time they dared make the call it was too late.

He died.

His parents and sister and crowd of friends, classmates and buddies were left behind, wondering why someone so young, so loved, so full of life and good humor had to die.

When my friend told me this story, the story of her older brother, I wondered too.

I cried, looking at her across the table from me with tears in her eyes.

“I don’t understand why my brother got to live when yours didn’t,” I said.

I still don’t.

Life isn’t fair. Death isn’t either.

I don’t know why God saved Peter. But I can thank Him every day that he did.

Recently I saw one of those posts: “Stop thinking about how stressed you are and start thinking about how blessed you are.”

I don’t care for these kinds of cutesy sayings because they are flippant and shallow. Often people have very valid reasons for stress and in fact remain impressively positive, positive inspirations of tranquility in the midst of strife, and they need the chance to vent as much as anyone. We all need to express our stress sometimes, whether it be through conversation or meditation or exercise. Repressing stress results only in implosion.

So I mentally snorted at the post and continued the habitual facebook scroll.

Yet I’ve been subconsciously considering that adage these past few days, reassessing my own formidable woes.

I suffer from depression. I have depression. I am depressed. Depression is real and it sucks.

It is like your skin. You don’t always feel it, aren’t always conscious of its presence. But then it gets irritated, and suddenly you can’t stop the itch. The rash spreads and infects your entire body. Nothing matters but ridding yourself of that terrible itch. Eventually you can soothe it, lend some balm to calm the irritation, and slowly your skin becomes livable again. But it’s there. It will always be there. So will depression, whether dormant or raging.

For the past few weeks I was depressed. I lost interest in everything and only wanted to curl up in bed, safe from everyone’s eyes and even from consciousness. Intense Netflix drama and sleep were the only solace from the misery of existence. I didn’t have the heart to draw, write, read, research future options, study Korean, or even reach out to anyone.

Wednesday I was jarred awake from that wretched stupor through a vicious stomach flu attack. I was awoken by pain in my stomach and spent the remainder of the night alternately dozing and retching. To spare you the lurid details I was extremely sick. I was so sick I was scared. Living alone can be truly disenchanting when you are sick.

Blessedly, I do have friends. Blessedly, someone who cares for me more than I deserve took me to the hospital and stayed with me through hours of waiting, testing, and translating, then brought me home again.

Blessedly, my co-workers absorbed my schedule and did not complain of my absence.

Blessedly, the flu shook me up. As my body began to recover so did my mentality.

The next day I was cleaning, drawing, and writing answers to applications. I was reading the Bible, studying, praying, writing and thinking.

I was recognizing again how blessed I am.

Life is ceaselessly difficult. It is wrought with loneliness and disappointment. There is so much heartache, so many choices we must make and then wonder if we made them rightly. As Christians endeavoring to follow God’s will, there are many choices we make that seem unfair, that seem to leave us behind while others frolic carefree.

However, as Christians, we experience peace, blessed assurance, that non-believers do not. They pray sometimes to a God they’re not certain they believe in, seeking guidance and aid in desperation, overwhelmed by the impossibility of life.

We pray to God who we know holds the future, although we’re not often certain we like the future He’s planned.

We try to make our own way; we rush in, cut corners, and stumble like fools. Then we fall, get caught in a hole, plummet into addiction or doomed romances, face consequences far more serious than we’d considered.

Blessedly, God calls after us. Blessedly, He maintains His promises.

One of the songs our music team at church will sing tomorrow is called “Your Promises” by Elevation Worship. The Bridge says: “Nothing’s gonna stop the plans you’ve made. Nothing’s gonna take your love away.”

Praise God, His plans are in motion and if we let Him carry them to fruition, if we stand before the crowds and praise His name, declare our old lives forfeit and our new selves ready to begin, we will see how blessed we can be.

“What a wretched person I am! Who will rescue me from this body of death? Thanks be to God—through Jesus Christ or Lord…through Christ Jesus the law of the Spirit of life set me free from the law of sin and death…the mind controlled by the Spirit is life and peace.”

~Romans 7:24-25, 8:1-2,6

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