"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?!" . . . :)
Friday, November 13, 2015
Friday, June 5, 2015
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.
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.
Friday, May 8, 2015
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
Friday, March 27, 2015
Edelweiss
"Eeeee-er-eeeee, eeeee-er-eeeeee;
eee-er-ee-er-ee-errr-eeeeeeee . . ."
The beginning tune to one of the most beautiful violin solos I had ever heard, right in my own classroom. The squeaking of the strings and bow, a screech every few strokes, the slightly off-beat cadence, the "whoops" quietly spoken when a mistake was made - and yet I couldn't help thinking that this version of "Edelweiss" was my favorite by far.
Step back in time with me about ten minutes earlier. One of my darling (well, most days they are darling) second grade boys, Joshua, had slipped his way into my room during lunch break, where I was working on some lesson plans. I was shooting the breeze only as one can with an 8 year old, when suddenly, he stopped and pointed at my huge TV.
"Teacher, the music . . ." and immediately began to vigorously and emotionally play an air violin. He was referring to Vivaldi's Four Seasons, which had been keeping me company until this little chatterbox had shown up.
"Oh, very good violin playing, Joshua! You are a master!"
Giggling and a smile came from my student.
"Do you actually play the violin?"
"Ah, yes Teacher. I'm playing Eldjoingss now . . ."
Or at least that's how the title of the song he was trying to say sounded to my ears. After a couple of times of trying to say it and me not repeating back the correct title to him, he got fed up enough to just start singing the first lines of the song, forced operatic vibrato and all. As soon as I got it, I told him that it was actually one of my favorite songs.
His eyes lit up and he stood still for a moment, almost seeming to be frozen by decision. He looked at the clock, which showed there were only seven minutes left until class would begin. Finally, he made his choice. He began to slowly back out of the room while holding up his hands, palms to me and saying slowly, "Stay, Teacher. Just stay." He said this a couple of times, backed out of my room, closed the door, opened it back up, and once again put up his hand in the stop motion, asking me to just stay.
Where was I going to go? To my apartment? Back to America? I'm not sure what was going through his reeling mind, but it cracked me up.
I suddenly heard running feet and gasping a couple minutes later. My door soon flew open and in fell (literally, almost flat on his face) Joshua with his big black violin case in tow.
"Are you going to play for me, Joshua?!"
A nod and fingers quickly freeing his instrument from its confinement were my only responses.
And so we come to where this story began. A boy and his screeching violin, his excitement bubbling over at the opportunity to share his talent with another, brightening that other's day.
All of us have talents. Small, big, or in between, we each have at least one thing in which we excel, or at least could excel in if we wanted. Some have the talent of singing or playing instruments and some have the talent of artistry. Some have been given a talent for listening, while others, for speaking. There are talents of teaching and of learning, of dreaming and of doing, of organizing and of leading. Variety isn't lacking when it comes to the gifts we have been bestowed.
The thing about talents, though, is often times the saying, "Use it or lose it," is too correct. Many times, I fear, we are too nervous to use what we have been given to bring joy to those around us or to make another's life a little easier. We bottle up our talents, worried that someone else with a similar gift is better than us or that what we have isn't good enough for others. Then we cork those bottles and put them on the back shelf, saving them for a time when we can use them in a better way, all the while the only thing they are doing is collecting dust. But if we confine them, how will they grow? A goldfish only grows as large as is suitable for its environment. If, like the goldfish, our talents grow likewise, how can they become any greater when they are shoved away, hidden? How will we enhance even the smallest thing we have been given if it remains set aside and stagnate? If one stays in first grade because they are too afraid to move on and grow the brain they have been given, to fill it with more knowledge, there would be no progress, no enhancement; only stagnation and, eventually, regression.
Like Joshua, we should be excited about what we have to share and about what ways we can grow. Be proud (not arrogant) of what you have been given. Understand that it has been given to you for a reason. Know that you have a choice in how you use it and whether or not you work to make it better. And then realize the potential you have for using it to touch a human heart, change a person's mind, comfort one in need, or shed light onto the life path of a wanderer. A talent is only a talent if it is used. So find yours, use yours . . . or someone else may.
eee-er-ee-er-ee-errr-eeeeeeee . . ."
The beginning tune to one of the most beautiful violin solos I had ever heard, right in my own classroom. The squeaking of the strings and bow, a screech every few strokes, the slightly off-beat cadence, the "whoops" quietly spoken when a mistake was made - and yet I couldn't help thinking that this version of "Edelweiss" was my favorite by far.
Step back in time with me about ten minutes earlier. One of my darling (well, most days they are darling) second grade boys, Joshua, had slipped his way into my room during lunch break, where I was working on some lesson plans. I was shooting the breeze only as one can with an 8 year old, when suddenly, he stopped and pointed at my huge TV.
"Teacher, the music . . ." and immediately began to vigorously and emotionally play an air violin. He was referring to Vivaldi's Four Seasons, which had been keeping me company until this little chatterbox had shown up.
"Oh, very good violin playing, Joshua! You are a master!"
Giggling and a smile came from my student.
"Do you actually play the violin?"
"Ah, yes Teacher. I'm playing Eldjoingss now . . ."
Or at least that's how the title of the song he was trying to say sounded to my ears. After a couple of times of trying to say it and me not repeating back the correct title to him, he got fed up enough to just start singing the first lines of the song, forced operatic vibrato and all. As soon as I got it, I told him that it was actually one of my favorite songs.
His eyes lit up and he stood still for a moment, almost seeming to be frozen by decision. He looked at the clock, which showed there were only seven minutes left until class would begin. Finally, he made his choice. He began to slowly back out of the room while holding up his hands, palms to me and saying slowly, "Stay, Teacher. Just stay." He said this a couple of times, backed out of my room, closed the door, opened it back up, and once again put up his hand in the stop motion, asking me to just stay.
Where was I going to go? To my apartment? Back to America? I'm not sure what was going through his reeling mind, but it cracked me up.
I suddenly heard running feet and gasping a couple minutes later. My door soon flew open and in fell (literally, almost flat on his face) Joshua with his big black violin case in tow.
"Are you going to play for me, Joshua?!"
A nod and fingers quickly freeing his instrument from its confinement were my only responses.
And so we come to where this story began. A boy and his screeching violin, his excitement bubbling over at the opportunity to share his talent with another, brightening that other's day.
All of us have talents. Small, big, or in between, we each have at least one thing in which we excel, or at least could excel in if we wanted. Some have the talent of singing or playing instruments and some have the talent of artistry. Some have been given a talent for listening, while others, for speaking. There are talents of teaching and of learning, of dreaming and of doing, of organizing and of leading. Variety isn't lacking when it comes to the gifts we have been bestowed.
The thing about talents, though, is often times the saying, "Use it or lose it," is too correct. Many times, I fear, we are too nervous to use what we have been given to bring joy to those around us or to make another's life a little easier. We bottle up our talents, worried that someone else with a similar gift is better than us or that what we have isn't good enough for others. Then we cork those bottles and put them on the back shelf, saving them for a time when we can use them in a better way, all the while the only thing they are doing is collecting dust. But if we confine them, how will they grow? A goldfish only grows as large as is suitable for its environment. If, like the goldfish, our talents grow likewise, how can they become any greater when they are shoved away, hidden? How will we enhance even the smallest thing we have been given if it remains set aside and stagnate? If one stays in first grade because they are too afraid to move on and grow the brain they have been given, to fill it with more knowledge, there would be no progress, no enhancement; only stagnation and, eventually, regression.
Like Joshua, we should be excited about what we have to share and about what ways we can grow. Be proud (not arrogant) of what you have been given. Understand that it has been given to you for a reason. Know that you have a choice in how you use it and whether or not you work to make it better. And then realize the potential you have for using it to touch a human heart, change a person's mind, comfort one in need, or shed light onto the life path of a wanderer. A talent is only a talent if it is used. So find yours, use yours . . . or someone else may.
Saturday, February 28, 2015
Lost
After arriving in Daegu, South Korea at 12:15 a.m. local time, February 25, 2015, I patiently waited at the bus station for my ride, not know what the driver of that ride would look like. As I stood in the almost deserted bus station, talking with the only other person who spoke English, a Korean woman tentatively slid up to us, stared at me, and said, "Ashley?" Or rather, more like, "Eh-shu-ley?" It had been quite a while since I had been that overjoyed to see someone I had never before met. So, I bid my English-speaking acquaintance adieu and good luck, and off we drove through the city to my new home.
Thought I was going to talk about being lost at the wrong bus station, eh? Of course not! Things can not go wrong THIS early in the story. How boring would that be?
Anyway, I finally went to bed around 1:30 a.m., with only my cherished Green Bay Packers blanket to keep me warm (they're always there for me, even in another country. lol), after two and a half days of traveling, one mainly sleepless night in the San Francisco airport, and zero knowledge as to what was going to happen in the morning. My body politely woke me at 6 a.m. and made the executive decision that I needed to sleep no longer. Sometimes, I question my body's logic . . . I got ready for the day by taking a shower in the middle of my small bathroom's floor with a sprayer head hooked up to the sink faucet (that is my shower) and eating some trail mix I had bought in the San Francisco airport.
The day was a blur of confusion and cold temperatures. My jacket remained on my body almost the entire day. However, I felt as though my head might not follow suit. It was being filled with more and more unconnected thoughts, advice, requirements, and lesson necessities. As the day progressed, my discouragement grew. I felt as though I was slowly sinking deeper and deeper into the quicksand of doubt and failure, trying to keep my head from being submerged without much success. Why had I come here, again? Why had I come here again? I wasn't sure of
which way to turn, and wasn't sure if I was even going in the right
direction.
After a long and many-course lunch and after more afternoon confusion and trying to understand and know everything I would need to be doing by the next week, I finally waltzed out of that chilly school, arm in arm with my dear friend Valentina, accompanied by one of her Korean friends, Hanson. They had come to deliver me from my distress and show me downtown Daegu - all the best restaurants, stores, and places where events happened. It truly took my mind off all the troubles I had been having since I had awoken that morning. I breathed, I laughed, I ate, and I felt comfortable in the company of what quickly became not one, but two friends.
As our night came to a close, they sent me off on a bus, almost as worried as parents on their child's first day of Kindergarten. I must admit, I was slightly worried as well, seeing as I was not fully sure of my bus stop, hoping my memory would choose a more appropriate time than now to fail me. My brain came through and I got off at the right stop. However, this was not the end of my adventure. I still had to find my way to my apartment . . . in the dark . . . at 9 p.m. . . . which I had only been to but once. I began my journey on foot and felt confident for the first part. Then, with the main roads behind me, I had to choose the correct direction to turn in the back streets. Unfortunately, I chose wrong. I turned left and began walking . . . and walking . . . and walking . . . I finally decided this was the wrong way and took a right down another back street, and yet another right to get me heading back in the direction from whence I had come. I again walked for too long and decided to find the place where I had made the wrong turn. I finally arrived and didn't know what to do. I was praying pretty hardcore by this point. I then remembered that in my pocket lay a piece of paper that was like gold for me - on it was my address written in Korean, just that afternoon. So, I made a decision that could have gone badly - I stepped into a tiny seafood restaurant on the corner, pointed to my possible ticket home, and asked, "Odiayo?", to the adjooma standing in shock at this foreigner speaking to her in her restaurant.
In a corner, there were also a few older men, drinking and eating and joking. The woman brought me to them and I nervously showed them the paper. They discussed. And their discussion obviously produced no positive results. My heart sank even lower than it had already - wiggling my toes would have caused it to palpitate. One of the men, however, took my paper and his phone outside, not deterred in the least bit. After what seemed lifetimes of sitting in a chair next to and across from buzzed Korean men who didn't even speak my language, in came the man with my precious paper. He took me just outside the door, pointed down the road, explained all the directions in Korean (which I obviously didn't understand much of), and walked back inside as I thanked him and bowed. So, I walked down the road in the correct direction at least, past one small mart, and at the second one turned, remembering vaguely that there had been something about turning by the orange mart sign. There it stood, my beloved home of one day. I sent up thank you's for safety and for guidance. And then almost starting crying because I realized how serious that situation could have become - I had no phone, no internet, no way to contact anyone, and no idea where I was and no one who knew where I was. That could have been a much bigger disaster than it had been already.
We are walking this journey of life. If we are all honest with ourselves, we don't really know where it will take us. Yes, we may know where we want it to take us or where we think it will take us, but let's face it - the future is out of our sight, so it is not in our minds. As we walk along, sometimes we get lost - we take a wrong turn, we forget which way we should go, we don't pay attention to the signs. But God knows the directions. He knows which way we should take, which way will lead us home. Explaining things to us sometimes can be difficult though because we don't always understand what He is trying to tell us.
"Why am I going through this trouble?" "Why did this door close in my face when it
seemed a perfect opportunity?" "Why does my life feel like it has imploded?"
But God is still pointing us in the right direction, even if it does not seem like the way we should take. He will not fail us. He will not lead us astray. His hand is always guiding us, whether through life or the dark alleys of a foreign country. He's got our back.
After a long and many-course lunch and after more afternoon confusion and trying to understand and know everything I would need to be doing by the next week, I finally waltzed out of that chilly school, arm in arm with my dear friend Valentina, accompanied by one of her Korean friends, Hanson. They had come to deliver me from my distress and show me downtown Daegu - all the best restaurants, stores, and places where events happened. It truly took my mind off all the troubles I had been having since I had awoken that morning. I breathed, I laughed, I ate, and I felt comfortable in the company of what quickly became not one, but two friends.
As our night came to a close, they sent me off on a bus, almost as worried as parents on their child's first day of Kindergarten. I must admit, I was slightly worried as well, seeing as I was not fully sure of my bus stop, hoping my memory would choose a more appropriate time than now to fail me. My brain came through and I got off at the right stop. However, this was not the end of my adventure. I still had to find my way to my apartment . . . in the dark . . . at 9 p.m. . . . which I had only been to but once. I began my journey on foot and felt confident for the first part. Then, with the main roads behind me, I had to choose the correct direction to turn in the back streets. Unfortunately, I chose wrong. I turned left and began walking . . . and walking . . . and walking . . . I finally decided this was the wrong way and took a right down another back street, and yet another right to get me heading back in the direction from whence I had come. I again walked for too long and decided to find the place where I had made the wrong turn. I finally arrived and didn't know what to do. I was praying pretty hardcore by this point. I then remembered that in my pocket lay a piece of paper that was like gold for me - on it was my address written in Korean, just that afternoon. So, I made a decision that could have gone badly - I stepped into a tiny seafood restaurant on the corner, pointed to my possible ticket home, and asked, "Odiayo?", to the adjooma standing in shock at this foreigner speaking to her in her restaurant.
In a corner, there were also a few older men, drinking and eating and joking. The woman brought me to them and I nervously showed them the paper. They discussed. And their discussion obviously produced no positive results. My heart sank even lower than it had already - wiggling my toes would have caused it to palpitate. One of the men, however, took my paper and his phone outside, not deterred in the least bit. After what seemed lifetimes of sitting in a chair next to and across from buzzed Korean men who didn't even speak my language, in came the man with my precious paper. He took me just outside the door, pointed down the road, explained all the directions in Korean (which I obviously didn't understand much of), and walked back inside as I thanked him and bowed. So, I walked down the road in the correct direction at least, past one small mart, and at the second one turned, remembering vaguely that there had been something about turning by the orange mart sign. There it stood, my beloved home of one day. I sent up thank you's for safety and for guidance. And then almost starting crying because I realized how serious that situation could have become - I had no phone, no internet, no way to contact anyone, and no idea where I was and no one who knew where I was. That could have been a much bigger disaster than it had been already.
We are walking this journey of life. If we are all honest with ourselves, we don't really know where it will take us. Yes, we may know where we want it to take us or where we think it will take us, but let's face it - the future is out of our sight, so it is not in our minds. As we walk along, sometimes we get lost - we take a wrong turn, we forget which way we should go, we don't pay attention to the signs. But God knows the directions. He knows which way we should take, which way will lead us home. Explaining things to us sometimes can be difficult though because we don't always understand what He is trying to tell us.
"Why am I going through this trouble?" "Why did this door close in my face when it
seemed a perfect opportunity?" "Why does my life feel like it has imploded?"
But God is still pointing us in the right direction, even if it does not seem like the way we should take. He will not fail us. He will not lead us astray. His hand is always guiding us, whether through life or the dark alleys of a foreign country. He's got our back.
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