Touched

Twelve years.

Twelve years a slave.

Twelve years a prisoner to this disease, her ever unwanted companion of agony, which sometimes forced her to her knees. It would always do what it pleased, which never included her release from this chain of embarrassment and pain. The priests told her she had no one to blame but herself, she should feel shame for whatever sin it was that now hid her under this cloak of suffering.

Money. Oh the money she had spent. To doctors and "healers" and sacrifices it went. The priests and healers cried, "Repent!" though from what she did not know. All she could do was lament her empty purse and empty soul while she still sat bent, failing in her attempt to win a never-ending duel with pain.

She felt hopeless . . . helpless . . . hapless . . . just less. Less than what she had been, less than what she could be, less than any child, man, or woman she could see. Or couldn't see. How had she been dealt this lot? It was as if an author had sat down and thought to write her life story and into the plot pen an unsolvable problem, not realizing the ripple that would cause a hurricane in his character's life.

One day however, she saw hope. It had dark hair and gentle eyes and they called it Jesus Christ. She had heard statements about him, she knew they weren't lies. If she could just get to him  . . . but he might despise her and her blood and pain so much he wouldn't recognize her faith, tiny but alive.

The crowd surged around her, like the ocean waves onto the sand, relentless, making it hard to stand. If him she could just touch with her hand, no effort would that demand. She tried to move as he walked by, she was pushed and shoved, made to fall by this human tide. But falling at the feet of Jesus made it easier to get to Him.

It was while she was down low that she reached Him. She touched his clothes. While on her knees she felt a flow of . . . something. A flow of warmth, like the sunlight shining bright from her insides. A flow of power, like a thousand boulders falling down a mountainside. A flow of peace, like a river that on its path slowly glides. Pain, vanished. The battle, finished.

Who touched me?

She sank back into the surge of people when she heard Him say this. A moment ago all was bliss, but now she feared what might come, the result of her actions, the sum. Again she heard it.
He knew. She knew he knew. And he knew she knew he knew. So instead of fleeing like a pursued gazelle, she moved forward like a cowering beaten dog and fell, trembling, at his feet. It was I, she whispered, I touched you. Please, forgive me, Lord, but I have had this pain and I just thought that if  . . . she trailed off, thinking her speech in vain.

Daughter, be comforted. Your faith has made you whole. Go in peace. Gentle words from a gentle healer and a gentle Lord.

Faith took her pain. Faith made her well. Faith, as tiny as a mustard seed. He said that's all we need. Faith.

Over the Waters

The wind howls, reminiscent of an displeased cat.
                  The waves lap hungrily at the side of the boat.
                                     His mind wanders, traversing multiple paths at once.

He sits among the others, steering, thinking, watching. The forceful wind has pushed their boat far from land, as if its weight were of no consequence. What will become of the One they left behind? He said to go, but should they have insisted no? How will He reach the other side - would He walk or find a ride? The man's mind begins to feel the weight of the day and of the wonders he has seen.

With a jolt like a lightning bolt, a voice cries out in terror, pulling him back into the here and now. A figure glides toward them, the sleep in his eyes causing it to look like a blur of white, bright as sunlight swallowing the darkness over the water on which it seems to tread. A demon, a ghost, an angelic being?! His mind is slow to grasp the reality of what he is seeing, but then he hears . . . he hears a voice.

That voice. It is one overflowing with authority yet laden with humility, bursting with power yet abounding in tenderness. It has blessed, it has comforted, it has healed. It has prayed and it has taught how to pray. It both chastises and encourages. The man knows this voice. What was it saying . . .?

"Take courage! It is I. Don't be afraid."

It is Him. The Lamb, the Son of God, Son of Man . . . I Am.

Don't be afraid.
                                       Don't be afraid . . .

Before he knew what was happening, words were traveling. From his mind they were flowing, to his voice they were connecting, out of his mouth they were trajecting . . . "Lord!"

WHAT was he saying? . . . WHY was he saying it? . . . From WHERE was this coming?

"If it is you, tell me to come to you on the water."
                                    Without a pause he heard the response . . . "Come."

His feet and legs immediately went into action. It was not his intention, but it was occurring without thought or hesitation. He sat on the side of the boat and wondered for a split second if, like it, he too would float. Or walk? Or sink? He was about to step over a chasm of unknown, with a bridge of faith alone to suspend him - no wood, no rope, no stone. He fixed his eyes on his Master. This could become a miracle or a disaster. Then, without further ado he pressed one foot, then two, onto the shifting liquid floor and he stood. His gaze didn't waver as he took each step toward the man he loved and admired, his complete faith was all that was required to do what seemed impossible. But then it did waver. The fear rose up inside like the water that was about to rise over his being, churning and engulfing him. It was no longer the Savior he was seeing but the impossibility of what was happening. Sinking, defeated, helpless he cried, "Lord, save me!"

"Oh ye of little faith, why did you doubt?" said Christ, his eyes swirled with sorrow and exhaustion.

                         Why HAD he taken his eyes off the Lord?Why had he looked away?
These thoughts trolled through his mind as he walked to the boat, chagrined, but with the Lord at his side. As he stepped in, he looked back at the water that had just turned what he thought was rock faith into dust. All this in a matter of seconds but what had felt like eternity.

Where is your faith?
Is it in yourself? Is it in those around you? The police officer down the street? The car you drive? The house in which you live? The number on your bank account?

Where is your gaze? Your focus?
Do you have it fixed upon the only One who can help you walk over the turbulent waters of life? Or have you cast down your eyes instead of your idols? Have you shifted gaze instead of shifting your mindset? Have you lost focus on Him instead of losing the burden of this world? Are you sinking? Are the waters overtaking you, engulfing you, mind, body, and soul? Hold on, don't lose hope. Have faith.

Fix your eyes on Him and merely cry out, "Lord . . . save me."

When you pass through the waters, I will be with you; when you pass through the rivers, they will not sweep over you . . . .       ~Isaiah 43:2

No Repayment Needed

Fathers.
They are quite the amazing breed of human beings.

They give - they give cell phones, money, car rides, lectures, time, awful dad jokes, "when I was your age" speeches, encouraging words, consequences, and a heart full of unconditional love.

They don't often take, unless that is part of the punishment they are doling out at the present moment. For example, when I was in high school, I listened to what my father said in one aspect of road safety by pulling over to the side of the road to talk on the phone. However, I didn't listen to the part of not parking on the crest of a hill. And of course who should drive by when I was talking on my phone, pulled over to the side of the road, on the crest of a hill? My father - with a very red and contorted face, I might add! I was given the option of him taking my cell phone or my car. He took my cell phone, although he did not have a happy daughter for a little while because of this incident.

My father gave and gave and gave. He gave his time and his effort and his money. He was always making sure we had clothes and food and a home, no matter the job he needed to have to do so. He gave his knowledge and experience and advice and stories. My mind is chalk full of things he told me or advised me of to this day. My behavior often stems from something I remember my father doing or telling me. I never gave him anything. What could I give him? I was a child growing into an adolescent and eventually young adult. I had no means or resources by which to give him anything. I had nothing to offer. I gave him no reason to ever be indebted to me or to repay me for something I did or gave him.

But for me? How can I ever repay him for what he has done for me? He raised me with love and patience and discipline and God. He helped mold me into the person I am today. He set the foundations for what and who I am and where my life has taken me. He helped provide me with opportunities of which I could have never dreamed. Oh no, he is not in any way indebted to me - it is I who am indebted to him. Something I will never be able to repay, nor that he would wish I repay. All he wants is communication and love from me.

"'Who has ever given to God, that God should repay them?' For from him and through and for him are all things." ~Romans 11:35-36
If my earthly father has given me so much and is someone whom I can never repay for what he has done for me, how much more so is my heavenly Father? He provides for all my needs. He never leaves my side. He gives me wisdom and advice and knowledge. He has given me the best opportunity and promise of all, eternal life by His side. How could we ever even dream that there is some way anything we give could repay God for the salvation and unconditional love He gives us, his beloved sons and daughters? All he asks for is communication and love and faith from me. A repayment is impossible and unnecessary. He needs nothing for all things are from him and for him. All I can do is love and believe . . .

Mugs and Things

There she stood in front of me on the stairs - wispy blonde curls; little hand on her jutting hip; immensely over-sized, black-framed, unnecessary glasses; and a re-gifted mug painted with ducks held high in her hand.

            Oh my goodness, do you, like, like my mug? asked my cousin's four-year old daughter, Ruthie, perfectly mocking the nasally and annoying accent we refer to as "Valley Girl" or "Californian".

That Saturday afternoon, my dad's side of the family had gotten together for Christmas. My family must like me or something, because they shifted this year's Christmas get-together to the afternoon of January 2 so that I could attend during my visit to 'Merica. As annual tradition would have it, after the meal and many souls braving the cold for some quality ice skating time, it was time for the Dice Game. You know, the game in which, once all the wrapped presents have disappeared from the middle of the circle into the possession of those who were lucky enough to roll doubles, a timer is started and in those few short minutes, family becomes enemies as gifts are stolen from each other, but only by those who are, again, lucky enough to roll doubles. Such a loving and fun-filled Christmas activity.

Of course, we always make sure the little ones have at least one present at the end (we like to keep the peace that way). Ruthie happened to be so lucky to unwrap an old mug once the game had concluded. I immediately recognized this mug from when I was a little girl - yup, it's old. Ruthie was so proud of her mug. She adored it. She carried it around the rest of the night, presenting it to others as if it were one of the crown jewels. The joy she found in sharing with others this mug was sincere, pure, undefiled. She bubbled with happiness at her newly acquired treasure.

And so, she stood in front of me, asking me about her mug, holding it up with pride and joy. Where she picked up this accent is beyond me, but I threw on my best valley girl accent, cloaking my voice in slightly disinterested and majorly nasally tones, and we proceeded to converse in this way for a good two to three minutes. I complimented her on her mug, asking where she got it and telling her how "like, totally awesome" it was. We volleyed compliments back and forth until I finally stumped her by telling her the jacket I was wearing wasn't mine and she proceeded to tell me instead that she "like, really totally like[d] . . . ummm . . ." my fingernails. I suppose it was safe to say that because I couldn't tell her that they weren't mine.

I know that I have previously written posts about simplicity. Maybe I sound a bit like a broken record. A girl and the aged, well-used mug she had acquired just made me once again realize how much joy the simple things in life can truly bring. Cold iced tea on a hot day; the sound of children's laughter on a playground; finding your favorite book among the mountains of written works at a used book store; adding the last piece to the puzzle you've worked on for weeks; the silent reassuring presence of a beloved friend - each can bring a smile to our face and joy to our hearts. Life can easily overflow with the stress and chaos that get poured on us day in and day out. Take a moment. Breathe. Find the simple things. Pick them out of your day like fragrant flowers out of a garden. Slow down and let them help you remember what joy is. We have this one life to live. Fill it with simple joys rather than get stuck on the daily problems we face. It makes the already difficult road we travel just that much easier.

Looking Through the Glass

  "WHAT were you THINKING?!" I cried exasperatedly at my travel-weary family.
They finally stood in front of me at Incheon International Airport, over two hours after the arrival of their flight. They had come to visit me and Korea for a week, but chaos had ensued before we even shoved ourselves, luggage in tow, into the sardine can that is the subway on a Friday night in Seoul.

                                            ~    ~    ~    ~    ~    ~    ~    ~    ~    ~    ~    ~

We had been preparing for this trip for months. Many talks of food, budgets, schedules, and lodging had preceded the trip. I had been researching and planning, more than I care to admit, so that they might experience MY South Korea, MY life. Excitement, and possibly stress levels, built. Finally, Friday, September 25 came! At last, I could share with my family what is now a part of who I am.

I had decided upon a train with a 3:20 p.m. departure for Seoul. School finishes at 2:30 and I had permission to leave immediately. Of course, today my second grade would choose to dawdle and move slower than molasses in January . . . of course. I blasted out of my classroom, quickly caught a taxi, and made it to the train station with 10 minutes to spare. I was sweaty. I was thirsty. I was sick. However, I was seated on my train as it strolled out of the station, transporting me just that much closer to a reunion with my family.

One transfer and subway ride later, I found myself walking toward the "Arrival" gates at Incheon International Airport, happiness starting to bubble up inside. I felt light, as if gravity had decided to weaken her hold on me for just a short while. My father had forgotten to resend me the itinerary, but I remembered the gist of it. I found the right gate and parked myself in front of it for what I assumed would be short enough wait. However, forty minutes ticked by after their flight's arrival time, and still no family. Of course I know that it takes time to get on the rail, get through immigration, wait for luggage, get said luggage off of carousel, but still . . .

After one hour passed, I started to become anxious and agitated. My family had flown Singapore Airlines and I had watched flight attendants from this airline walk through the automatic doors at the gate five minutes ago. Something was off. So, I walked up and down the entire length of the airport, hoping they had somehow come out the wrong doors and were waiting. My phone's wifi was on the fritz so there was no possible way of connecting. I went to the help desk, asked them to page my father to Gate C, and returned to my post, waiting quietly, patiently, but not calmly.

Twenty minutes dragged themselves down the clock, so I dragged myself back to the help desk, asking for yet another paging. I then walked the length of the airport twice more before stopping at a different help desk to ask how to get hold of the immigration department (I didn't want the other lady thinking I was crazy for coming back a third time). I called immigration to ask if there was anyone being held for any reason by such-and-such name and off of such-and-such flight. "I'm sorry, I have no one by that name," was the polite response I received. I didn't know whether to be relieved or feel even more worried, every option I could think of had been exhausted.

After one and a half hours of hoping every pair of legs I saw walking toward the sliding glass doors would be my family's, I felt utterly hopeless. I decided to call my dear Korean friend Hanson. As soon as the phone began to ring, I hung up. What was the logic in calling him? He lives in Daegu. He doesn't work at the airport. What could he possibly do?

A minute later, I was on the phone with him. He asked, "What's wrong, Ash?" and I couldn't help myself. I broke down. In the middle of the airport, I, as quietly as possible, sobbed, "I can't . . . find . . . my . . . family . . ." I spent the better part of ten minutes listening to his ideas and telling him I had already done this or that, all while sobs would burst out of me, from where, I have no idea. A couple of men were giving me some strange and concerned looks, but I could only control myself so much at this point. Finally, Hanson came up with the most brilliant idea. He would find my family on Kakao Talk, a free messaging service, and then try connecting with any of them. He reassured me this would work and then told me to stop crying. A few minutes later, my father's voice was filtering through my ear, causing my entire being to relax. In more or less words, my family arrived at baggage claim, assumed I was meeting them there, and waited . . . and waited . . . and waited . . . . Over an hour and a couple naps later, my dad notice the sign that said, in the lovely English language, "CUSTOMS". Light bulb! He talked to the nice gentleman at customs, who directed his attention to the sliding glass doors through which every passenger was passing.

And so we end with the beginning of this story. After relieved and happy hugs, I then questioned whether my happiness or my exasperation was stronger at that moment. However, after a long and crowded subway ride and many stairs later, we sat in our hotel, contentedly eating convenience store ramyeon before sleeping that evening's experience into a memory.

The week flew by and after my family had left, I started thinking once again about our Friday night disaster. It made me think about God and us. Sometimes, we can be so clueless. We sit and we wait . . . and wait . . . and wait. Where is God? Why has he not appeared in my life yet? Has he forgotten about me? We sit, waiting with all of our baggage, napping the minutes, hours, years away, unable to see past the walls and glass doors in our lives. Yet He stands waiting for us, just within reach, if only we would realize the simplicity of how to get to Him. He never gives up on us. He goes down all paths to try to help us see Him, to find Him, to be with Him. All we need do is wake up. Wake up to the reality of Him, the reality of His love, the reality of the ease with which we can find Him, if only we try. When we finally rub the sleep from our eyes and figure out He is so close, we walk straight into His wide-open arms. He takes us and holds us and engulfs us with His grace and love and peace. And, luckily for us, he shows no exasperation by crying out, "What were you THINKING?!" . . . :)

Let It Go, Not Smell!

Uggghhh . . .
       The stench invaded my nostrils with the violence of an enemy ambush, mercilessly forcing its way in with no chance for negotiation.

The stench? My kitchen. Well more like my 5'x5' square in which a sink, two-burner gas range, and cupboards not made for short people reside. Ironic, being I live in Korea . . .

I am a person who thoroughly enjoys a clean house - messiness and dirtiness sometimes give me nightmares. Well, not quite that extreme, but it does make it difficult for me to concentrate on any other task at hand. However, this week, my motivation to keep my sink empty and my floor clothing free was on holiday. Working all day, coming home to do more work at home, cooking food, and then remembering I will be getting up the next day to do it all over again - well this week it made me tired. And lazy. And Netflix-binge prone.

It started after I got back from an amazing but tiring Sunday in Busan, meeting with some dear friends. The beach, the sun, the amazing Indian food, the stellar company - each piece of the day was worth the train ride and the fact that, when I arrived home at 8:30 that night, I still had a lot of work to do before Monday morning barged in, most unwelcome. Monday, Busan's sun and my lack of hydration caught up to me in the form of a splitting headache that relentlessly pounded on my brain and made me crave the embrace of my bed. Dishes from that day and the previous sat in my sink. That's not so bad though, right? A couple days' worth of dishes for one person sitting in the sink?

This trend continued, however. By Wednesday, I walked in my door, and was not so kindly greeted by a smell that made my nose cringe with disgust. How rude! I realized that the frying pan I had used on Monday, filled with water, and set on the stove top with all good intentions of washing it was the biggest culprit of the wretched aroma hanging in my box of kitchen. Lack of circulation and unforgiving heat, I believe, also encouraged the growth of this scent. At this point, it wasn't even lack of motivation that kept me from washing the dishes. I was intimidated by the possible new creatures that may have been formed in the murky waters of the pan. I did NOT want to get involved in whatever was happening in my kitchen. But still, every time I was in this room by necessity, I knew what needed to be done. I knew that I should do it soon, that I shouldn't keep putting off what was necessary to once again make my apartment fresh and livable. And even though I have only a few people in Daegu who would do so, the thought of someone showing up at my place randomly also horrified me. The turmoil that was happening inside my house was easy to hide, as long as no one came inside. But that didn't mean that it wasn't still there, every day, just waiting for me to walk in the door to rub its reality in my face.

Finally, I knew that the day to clean this mess up and out of my life had come when I started putting out a candle in the kitchen to hide the smell which STILL couldn't fully mask it. So, I washed all the other dishes, feeling a little better as each one found its spot in the dish rack. And then . . . the pan. The bane of my existence at the moment. I rolled up my sleeves (only figuratively because it was too hot to be wearing any other shirt but a tanktop) and poured the stench-laden water down the drain. I scrubbed with enough soap to do a couple sink fulls of dishes. At last, the relief I had been wanting came. The pan was washed. The smell would soon dissipate and eventually no longer be present.

My smelly pan experience made me think. Life has problems. Life has ups and downs, positives and negatives, the good, the bad, and the . . . smelly. Life has people who do not-so-nice things to you. Sometimes, when those people treat you unfairly or break your trust or are just downright rude and uncouth, the experience sits with us. Forgiveness is the last thing on our minds. It doesn't seem to make much of a difference at first, holding on to whatever was done to wrong you. Soon, though, the stench begins to fill you, overwhelm you. Only you know the turmoil inside. Only you are hit with its reality every time you think about what happened and every time you think about forgiving, but decide again that you can't let go yet. You can try to cover it up by busying yourself with work, school, friends, church - but it will still always inch its way into your mind, seeping over the sweet aroma of distraction.

Forgiving can be difficult. Letting go of whatever you are keeping locked up inside can seem intimidating and impossible. But once you put that dish under the water and scrub it like there's no tomorrow, once you give over your problem to the One who can clean up any mess, relief will flood you. The lingering situation and feelings will begin to dissipate, and eventually disappear. You may not forget what happened and maybe even use it to learn how to better deal with such a situation in the future (i.e., don't get lazy and let your pan become a pool for your food), but you will be rid of it constantly hanging over you, never fully leaving your mind. Relief and peace will visit you, as they did me once I had finally cleaned my pan. We can't always forget, and maybe in some cases we shouldn't forget, but forgiveness is always a necessity, not a suggestion, if you desire a life free of unnecessary and useless anger or disappointment or jealousy. If you have a pan to clean, I encourage you to just do it. Don't put it off another day.

Weary

Death.

It's a mysterious event when you really take the time to think about it. One second, someone is breathing, thinking, seeing, hearing, sensing; the next, their breath is finished, their heart no longer beats, the connections in their brain no longer fire commands. All that remains is a body - the container for this former person's intelligence, humor, greed, kindness, determination, anger, happiness. Whatever he or she was and felt as a conscious being no longer is there. 

This last week I was on vacation in Seoul. It was a wonderful but extremely busy time. Friends and former students kept me going each day with appointments. Getting to see them all was exciting for me - I never thought I would actually see or hug or speak face to face with most of these people again in this life. What an awesome five days it was!

I returned to Daegu and my small but cozy apartment and couldn't wait to be unpacked and get into bed. But, of course, Facebook has a way of distracting and pulling one into the virtual realms of others' lives. While chatting with a friend about how I was slightly depressed about being back to the comparatively quiet city of Daegu after Seoul, I scrolled over a picture of a friend with someone I did not recognize. It had a lengthy caption, so, of course, I felt the need to read it. When I read the words, I felt slightly confused, for it seemed as if the person who had posted was talking about my friend in the past tense. 

So . . . I clicked. I was taken to my friend's Facebook page. I saw similar posts. I saw an article about a motorcycle and car accident. I saw a comment: RIP - you will be missed. I felt disbelief. I felt shock. And soon, a wave of realization swept over me, drenching me with a heavy sadness down to the depths of my heart. I didn't know what to do or how to feel. I cried. I thought. I looked at pictures. I read. I cried some more. Why? How? What????

This world is beginning to make me weary. Every day something happens somewhere to cause pain, suffering, fear, sorrow. The earth is heaving and creaking and aching. We are traveling; we are not home. Some days, I wonder when will be the last day in this place of sin and pain. Soon, very soon. 

Soon, I hope to see my friend once again, greet him with a hug and a smile in our new bodies as we finally travel Home.

He will wipe every tear from their eyes. there will be no more death or mourning or crying or pain, for the old order of things has passed away . . . "I am making everything new!" ~Revelation 21:4,5