I Feel Vindicated

While taking classes at Ewha, I rarely ate lunch at the school cafeteria. The food was gone and the kitchen cleaned by the time I got back from school, at around 1:30, so I would pack along a pbj and two hard boiled eggs, when I remembered to. When I didn't remember, I would stop on the way to work for kimbop, a delightfully bland and inoffensive food. Today, however, I broke that pattern, taking my repast at the kindergarten. As I went through the buffet line, I took perhaps a larger helping of kimche than ever before, for time takes rather fiendish pleasure in counterbalancing those lessons that experience has so painstakingly taught. I knew it was hot, of course, "But certainly," thought I, "It can't be all that my memory trumped it up to be." So, rather than the cautious nibbles I've been accustomed to, my chopsticks raised a Korean-sized, dripping red cabbage leaf to my mouth. The first thought that raced through my startled mind was, "Just keep eating. Don't think about it. Just keep eating." One hand clenched into a fist, and tears swam in my dilated eyes. And I kept on chewing. A pose of casual nonchalance impossible to strike, I bent my head, clapped my unclenched hand to my burning mouth, and writhed on the edge my seat. It was a few moments before I could bring my hand from my mouth to the glass of water before me. I raised it to my lips, but as soon as the water touched my tongue, the pain exploded. The cook, bless her!, noticed my fierce discomfort, and rushed over with a piece of cheese. I took and gratefully laid it on my swollen tongue. I let it sit there, not chewing, just taking relief in its beautiful, smooth coolness. I still hurt all over, for quite a while (in fact, when I caught my reflection in a mirror, nearly a half an hour later, my lips were still a swollen, fiery hot red), but that soothed the worst of it, and I was able to open my eyes and relax my clenched toes. The half dozen kids I was sitting next to were eyeing me bemusedly. Then Raymond laughed, "Lis Teacher! Watch!" He dug his spoon into the kimche and shoved a dripping spoon full into his mouth. I was as amazed as I pretended to be, but laughed a few minutes later to see, from the corner of my eye, a small, red-faced boy chugging down a glass of cool water. Somehow, I feel vindicated.

Clean, White Snow

This morning opened its eyes to a world wrapped in clean, white snow. In my estimation, as long as it's going to be cold it may as well snow. So I can appreciate the whiteness, despite the weather. I'm told this is the biggest snow fall they've had in twenty-five years. It's melting off as the day grows warmer, so the streets now are nothing more than slushy mud. But I'm ok with that. The memory of what was keeps me from despising what is.

I think I can, without exaggeration, say that I have now experienced the ultimate public transportation squish. Often a bus or subway is quite empty, with plenty of seats for all. Just as frequently one must use his elbows and body weight in order to manuver. Even this, however, I have lately discovered to be but child's play. I was in the subway, a few evenings back, waiting for the train. The platform was uncomfortably crowded, but not uncommonly so for that time of night. The train pulled into sight, and slowly rolled to a stop in front of us. I was curious to see, through the windows, that it was already packed to capacity. The doors slid open, allowing a few dozen people to disembark. And then a mass of bodies surged forward. Quickly at first, then as space became a minimum, more slowly. The flow came to a stop just as I stepped from the platform to the train. Many people remained on the platform behind me. Two 'pushers' moved to the back, thrust their arms forward, and began shoving. The inevitable domino effect crushed me forward, as the stragglers were muscled onto the bloated train. I lost my footing and would have fallen, but there was nowhere to fall to. I slammed into the suit coat in front of me, and there I stayed, like a bug splatted on a pain of glass. He slammed into the person in front of him, and that made two bugs. The bouncers gave one more shove, the doors closed in on us, and all we splatted bugs held our breaths while the train, bursting at its seams, wobbled off to the next stop.

Some things are still difficult, but I think I'm beginning to find my groove here. The more I'm able communicate, the easier it is to cope. I'm still at the baby-talk level, but that doesn't really daunt me. And, while my effort certainly amuses my Korean friends, it also pleases them. Some day, I whisper to myself, some day...

At Long Last!

Well Family, It's been a while. I won't offer any apologies, because there are none to be had. These last few weeks have applied more pressure than any I've yet experienced since coming to Korea. This has been mostly due to the Korean classes I've been taking. They really wouldn't be too bad, if they weren't being taken on top of a full time job. But as it is, I don't feel like I have enough brain space to do all I need to. We took one half of the final exam today. The listening/writing half. On Monday it'll be reading, grammar, & speaking. I'm at the point, though it took me a while to get here, where it doesn't really matter any more whether or not I pass. I've given it my level best, and that's all I can do. Whether or not I get a passing grade, I don't think I'm going to take the next level at Ewha. Adam and I are talking about splitting the cost for a private tutor next semester, instead. Language learning will be a little more relaxed that way. We'll be able to go at a slower pace, and study at more convenient times.

Work still goes well. Right now the kindergarten is practicing for a Christmas play. That's around thirty 4-6 year olds, who don't speak my language. It was really chaotic at first, but it's beginning to fall into place. It's super simple, so we should be able to pull it off. I say 'we'. Really, Adam and Teresa have borne most of the responsibility for that. I'm not quite sure how that happened, but I'm glad not to have that to add to my already full head.
Today we practiced 'on stage'. As I wasn't needed with the kids, Adam asked me to go up to the sound room to let the sound-board man, Mr. S, know what songs we'd be playing, when to play them, and at what point to turn the volume down. Well, that was interesting.
I went up and took a seat next to Mr. S behind the controls. It didn't take long to ascertain that he spoke no English. I knew enough Korean to specify which track to play, and when, but didn't know how to tell him about the volume. So I gestured eloquently, communicating that I wanted to be shown where the volume control was. He shook his head, and made me to understand that he was the sound man. Very well. I shrugged and leaned forward to watch out of the little window.
At the appropriate moment Adam signaled for me to play track five. I turned to Mr. S, "O baun."
He shook his head.
I held up five fingers and repeated myself.
Another man came up. Speaking in broken English, he told me that they didn't have the CD yet. Well, there was nothing I could do about that.
I looked out the little window, and saw everyone posed and waiting. Adam looked up at the speakers. There was no way for me to communicate to him what I knew, so I just sat there, posed and waiting like everyone else. Finally Teresa realized that it wasn't going to happen, so they went on with another part of the play.
A minute later Bok Teacher ran up stairs with the CD we needed. Again Adam looked up and gave the go signal.
Again I clearly directed, "O baun."
Again Mr. S. shook his head. He wanted to play track one.
I turned to Ms. Bok, "O baun keulaumyaun sah baun." I wasn't quite certain about that clumsy conjunction, but she seemed to understand that I wanted track five first, and then track four.
"But then what?" She asked.
"Nothing." I was puzzled, "Just five and then four."
"Not another one?"
I shook my head.
"OK. Five, then four, then five again."
"No!" I crossed my arms to make an X. "Just five and then four. Then stop."
She communicated this to Mr. S., and he began to play track five.
I looked down out of the little window, watching the children sing. When the first verse ended, I turned and made the X again. "Stop now." I said in English, "Song no."
Too complex.
"Song stop!"
Still no go, so I pointed out the window. The kids were being to fuss, and all of the English and Korean teachers were waving at us to turn the music off.
"Ah!" He comprehended wisely, "Cut!"
Very well. Cut.

Some how I feel like my emails are becoming a bit disjointed. Almost as if I write about all these trivialities, while skipping over more consequential events. Many things that add to the continuity and progression of my days are, I'm sure, worthy of note. But, until I can find the time to do them justice, they shall have to remain untouched. Meanwhile, my family, thank you for listening to my random thoughts. Have a lovely day…

me

We Get on Swimmingly

My favorite class is composed of four glowing eight year old boys. Crazy, stupid, and irrepressibly cheerful. Matthew (who informs me that his English nickname is Matt) is perpetually at least ten minutes late for every class. Kevin, James and John light up when I step into the classroom, and wait for my perplexed, "Where's Matthew?" This is their cue to all begin talking at once. In Korean, of course. The gestures that accompany their words usually leave me in stitches. Each day there's a different reason for why Matthew is late. The first time it was because he fell and hurt himself. The next, it was because he'd been hit by a car. After that, he was shot. Each time something worse than the last has happened to him. Each time I reply, "Oh dear! Poor Matthew! Did he break his leg?" They nod enthusiastically, I laugh, and class commences.
We're still working on those first ten sight words that reduced James to tears several weeks ago. The boys don't take learning very seriously, and it's hard for me to press them, knowing that they've just come from school, and will be going back to several more hours of school when they leave. I used to snap their heads with a pencil when they misbehaved. It was pretty effective, I thought. But Joy, one of the Korean teachers, learned of my methods and put a stop to them. Next class, I told Kevin to stop clowning around. He grabbed a pencil from the table and handed it to me. I smiled and shook my head. He looked puzzled for a minute, then snapped his own head. It nearly killed me. Anyways, that method abolished, I racked my mind for another. It came in the form of a large jar of jelly bellies. I bring it to class with me, shake it around in front of the boys, open the lid and let them smell, then set it in the middle of the table. When one of them wins a game, gets a word right, or writes neatly, I make a mark on the board under his name. If he misbehaves, I take a mark away. At the end of class, he gets as many jelly beans as he has marks. It's great incentive, and we get on swimmingly.

Happy Peppero Day

Dear Family,

The weather has definitely become cold. Even still I can't persuade myself to layer. And so I walk down the street with a light sweater and benumbed limbs. Part of the problem is that Koreans keep the indoors dizzyingly warm. The one day that I did wear a long-sleeved shirt to work, I thought I should die of heat exhaustion. During the ten minute break between classes I went into the unheated section of the building to partake of some good, old fashioned coldness. So, I opt for fifteen minutes of coldness during my morning walk to work, over several working hours of intense heat. In all rationality, though, it probably wouldn't kill me to wear a coat out of doors.

Today is 'Peppero Day'. Peppero is a thin, long bread stick, about the size of a small straw, either filled with or dipped in chocolate. And 11/11, because the ones in this date look like Peppero sticks, is the day on which one exchanges Peppero with his friends. Yesterday Paul, one of my students, gave Teresa and I each a package of Peppero with hearts and "Sweet Love" liberally scattered over the pink wrapping in which it came. Very cute.

So happy Peppero Day,
Elisabeth

Like a Bug, Really

As one hour in the class room is added to another, muscular tension in the vocal regions of the Meeguk and Eelbon (American and Japanese, respectively) mouth and throat begins to relax. To chew up and spit out one hapless sound in lieu of its more schismatic brother is no longer the predominant mode of pronunciation. Each has grown either lazy or disgruntled, according to his own particular propensity, and has lapsed into a much more relaxed pronunciation pattern: that which conforms credulously his own native tongue. I won't hazard a guess at the Japanese accent, ignorant as I am of it. You shall have to be content of my caricature of the American, who thakes voiceless sthops tho a new level, by unceremoniously thurning the more evasive intho fricathives. This is salubriously cleaner than the than those previous expulsions of breathy force, but is unfortunately no more accurate, and is certainly far less amusing. Thus evasive remains the Korean language to the untrained tongue…

I was thinking about God, and it struck me how very much greater and more awesome and terrible He is than anything I could ever imagine. I really wonder that I never before thought of God as big. As mind numbingly, explosively big. When I do, I become so very microscopically small and irrelevant – like a bug, really. That's all I can think to liken it to. Suddenly, then, all my goodness is ridiculously insignificant. After all, of value is the most self-possessed bug? I am so utterly beneath Him, so decidedly unworthy of His notice. Is it not presumptuous of me even to think about Him? If He should deign to despise me, that would be esteemed a distinction. That He has stooped to love me and to know and be known by me is more incomprehensible than the most fathomless mysteries of the universe. Perhaps, then, that is why one cannot see God and live. To have the fearsomeness of God revealed would strike such terror into the heart of the observer that he would no doubt die of post-traumatic stress. While I have no desire to be struck dead, I certainly wouldn't mind being seized will a healthy dose of holly fear and amazement.

I am Dumbfounded

Today Teresa and I taught in Ilsan, thirty minutes away by car, provided there's no traffic. I usually take advantage of the drive by studying Korean. Today I had my note pad with me, and was practicing writing. When we got to the school, I laid the pad on my desk, and the little girls crowded around oohing and aahing. Then Kate picked up a marker and wrote 'apple' on the white board. I picked up another marker, and wrote its Korean equivalent, 'sagwa'. She was delighted, and began to scribble word after English word, while I followed with Korean, surprising myself at how much I knew. Great English practice for her; great Korean practice for me. I really like the group of kids there. They're smart and responsive, and all together enjoyable.

I love reading the prayers recorded in the Old Testament - those prayed by Moses and by Abraham and by Ezra and by Jehoshaphat, and so many others. They reasoned with God. They called to His attention those promises that He had made, or the consequences of a certain course of action; as if God was not already aware of all these things! And, yet, God had such respect for the prayers offered that He allowed Himself to be persuaded by them, and the fates of nations were altered. I am dumbfounded.

Getting it out of my System

Dear Family,
I would like to tell you a hair story. My own was beginning to feel draggy. That's not a word, my spell check tells me, but there's no other for it, so I must improvise. Constantly ratty, and constantly in the way. I've wanted to layer it for some time anyway, so (being the improvising penny pincher that I am) I went online to find 'self-cutting' directions. I found what I was looking for, and a few minutes later found me standing in front of the mirror with a pair of scissors in hand, and a pile of hair at foot. I botched it. I really, really botched it. For a few seconds I stood there looking at the mess, then philosophically shrugged my shoulders, "At least I've gotten it out of my system now." Of course, inside I wasn't nearly so composed. I threw my hair back, hopefully to conceal the disconcerting truth, and determined to have a hair dresser fix it as soon as might possibly be.
Yesterday, two days later, Pyongae came down to the teachers' office. "Ruth!" I addressed her by her English name, "Do you know where I can get my hair cut?" She did, and ten minutes later found me sitting in a chair, with the hairdresser's little face laughing above my own in the mirror. I was thoroughly embarrassed, but maintained facadal (that's not a word, either) composure. Ruth asked what I wanted done with it. "It doesn't matter." I replied, "She can do whatever she wants. Leave it as long as possible, but other than that..." I shrugged. The hairdresser trimmed and snipped and combed away. It took a little while, but she did an amazing job, managing (I'm not sure how) to obtain the look I had been going for all along. And my hair isn't very much shorter for all that. Thus the uncourageous sinking feeling that had been tickling my thoughts for the last two days lifted. The others all like it, too, so I'm no worse off for the wear. I'll send a picture of the 'new me' whenever I get around to doing so.
Lots of laughs,
Elisabeth

Thus Commenced my Day

Another little Dube arrived early this morning. It was prearranged that, should Beth go into labor on an odd night, Teresa would watch Emma and Owen for them ("Because," quoth she "I'm the odd one."), leaving the even nights to me. Save Monday and Friday evenings, the first of which was to always by default fall to me and the second to her. We had a few good laughs over the oddity of the arrangement, but it fit well with our respective days off, and so was easily enough remembered.
In the wee hours of this morning, sometime between one and two o'clock, Teresa woke me up, "Beth's having the baby, and it's your night. Adam will be over to pick you up in ten minutes." I rolled out of bed, and tried to focus through the fuzziness. That only took a very few seconds, and I was soon stuffing a few random items into a bag, in the likely event that I wouldn't have the chance to return before work later that morning. That accomplished, I made my bed. This, unaccountably, I remember distinctly.
Adam arrived post-haste, whisked me over to their apartment, and then hauled Beth off to the hospital. I reset my alarm to 5:30, one half hour later than my usual waking time, then crashed on their bed. I lay there for an age, and was just beginning to doze off, when Owen began to whimper in the other room. I tiptoed in, and rubbed his back. He woke up from the dream that had been troubling him, "Mommy?" Well, not exactly, but I wasn't about to tell him that. "It's ok," I whispered, hoping that the softness of my voice, coupled with his sleepiness, would fool him. I stood there until his eyes closed again, then tiptoed back to bed.
Emma got up a few whiles later, to use the bathroom. She made more noise, and turned on more lights, than I've ever experienced in the middle of the night. I lay there silently, hoping that she wouldn't take it into her head to visit her parents room. Fortunately my fears were ill-founded, and she went to bed again about five minutes later. That was just long enough to rouse my mind to a state of alertness. I reset my alarm for six o'clock.
My thoughts just began to drift again when my cell phone buzzed. Adam had sent me a text: "Baby here. Healthy." "CONGRATULATIONS!!!" I responded, and had just enough thought space available to be amazed at what a very short labor it had been. Only between two and three hours. I again reset the alarm: 6:30.
Forty-five minutes later, an alarm clock somewhere in the room began to ring. Of course, my first reaction was to reach for my own. That effort feckless, I groped around a bit before finding the other. 5:15. Aargh.
Another forty-five minutes, and I heard the front door unlocking. I had been asleep, but my mind was in such a state of alertness by this point, that I was out of bed before the door was opened. Adam thanked me profusely, and gathered the kids out of bed. We all piled into the car in our PJs, and drove back to my apartment.
Thus commenced my day.

Wet Balloons and Bubbles

Korean has two kinds of stops: the aspirated and the un-aspirated. The later are further categorized as either fortis or lenis. These we studied on the third day of Korean class, which is composed of perhaps sixteen individuals: four Americans, three Japanese, and a smattering of other nationalities.
My fellow American is able to cognize that there is some difference in sound between the aspirated stop its un-aspirated counterpart, but here the cogitation ceases. He aspirates that which is to be left un-aspirated, and in desperate attempt to pronounce distinctly that which is to be aspirated, huffs and puffs and generally blows himself into a state of breathless confusion.
The Japanese, on the other hand, can't aspirate. The only similarity, in fact, between these two antipodal linguistic groups is that of countenance: flushed and strained. Those sounds which the westerner has pronounced like a deflating wet balloon, the easterner pronounces like a bubble popping on a spring day. More pleasant to the offended ear, but no more accurate for it. He, too, hears some distinction. Exactly what that distinction is, he cannot tell. And so his un-aspirated stops are uttered as follows: lenis, fortis, and barricaded casement. His throat contracts. His lips tighten. His fists clench. His entire being is concentrated on the reproduction of that harshness which he hears, while, with an effort diverting to behold, he distinctly pronounces an unadulterated consonant. On more than one occasion I've been forced to lower my gaze in order to hold back the laughter with which my shoulders shake and my eyes water.
Of course, being witness to this little comedy, I'm profoundly grateful for the linguistics training I've had. I have by no means mastered all of the sounds yet, but at least I know what I'm trying for, and look forward to the day when my jaw will cease to ache, and the sounds come fluently.

For Goodness Sake!

Dear Sister,
I am so tired. I think it would be a good thing if you were here to hug me right now. Then maybe I could cry for a little while, and then things would be all better. Language classes started on Monday, and that makes me crazy. Still not over the head cold, and now I'm battling some sort of intestinal bug. This morning I couldn't find my cell phone for the life of me, and I was so annoyed. I looked everywhere I could think of...including the refrigerator. lol. I finally left home without it, not that it really mattered. This morning class was so difficult. Jeffrey (ADD, if I may so classify) went into a screaming fit, because I tried to take a sticker away from him. I finally sent him out of the room, but it was hard to keep things going after that. And Benjamin wouldn't obey, until I hit him on the head so hard with one of the other kid's pencils that it broke. He was ok after that, but I felt bad about the pencil...of all things. Adam and I took of straight as class ended. Like jetted out of the classroom, grabbing our bags on the way, and walk/jogged 15 minutes to the nearest bus stop. There we waited a good ten minutes for our bus, and ended up arriving at Ewha twenty minutes late. We missed that morning's dictation test, needless to say. After class we ran back outside again, hit the first bus, and took it to SCG, where I proceeded to wolf down lunch (pbj and two boiled eggs) while preparing today's and tomorrow's lessons. Of course kids were missing from both classes this afternoon, and of course today would have been the day I had some more important materials prepared. So I had to put some of that off and improvise. It was ok, but I was glad when it ended. I went back into the office to lock my lap top in its cupboard, but the key's gone. One of the kids took it. I don't know enough Korean to figure out who...so it stays missing. After work, Teresa and I decided to take a cab to E-mart, because I want to get a fleece blanket before it gets really cold. So I spent three bucks on a taxi, but the blankets aren't selling any more. Got home, cleaned up the dog poop on the kitchen floor, looked for my phone for a little bit longer (this time in the trash can), gave up and put on a movie. Teresa got home about an hour later (she and the Dubes had gone out to dinner, which I can't afford to do as often as they do). She knew I had been having kind of a hard day and wanted to cheer me up, so she looked around for my phone for a while too. Where should she find it but in my purse? In the cell phone pocket of my purse, nonetheless. I'm glad it's found, but that just gives you some idea of what kind of state my head's in. I keep my phone in that pocket, for goodness sake! Of course it was there. Oh well. And now I'm eating rice. I realize how much I need to prepare my heart to love God. To be honored by His regard. I'm very sad that I'm not a much better person. "Equilibrium" I said out loud to myself today as I walked through the market. I say things out loud to myself here, because it doesn't matter anyways. People don't stare any more for my odd mumblings, because they can't stare any more. It's obnoxious being such a spectacle. At any rate, I whispered, "equilibrium" because it's such a good word, and I want to have it. But I haven't. I'm like a wave. Caught up in a current to strong for me, and then spit out covered with seaweed. That's an analogy Teresa used the other day, and it fits. Really, not always. Just today. Usually I'm ok. I think what set me off was that Teresa's boyfriend came over the other evening. I went into the room to ask T a question, and they were holding hands. And I was very lonely. Very, very lonely. There's no loneliness like that of being far from all familiarity and those whom you love more than life. But, Sister, I wouldn't trade being here for the world. I was walking to school a few days ago and I realized that, though it's harder on an hour to hour basis, I am so much happier here than I was back in the US. I don't have a good time like I did there, but I have purpose. A sense of belonging, of being, of direction. I am so content to be here, and so eager to learn and to press forward. It's like one part of me is withering up and dying, while the other part is flourishing. It leaves me a little bit confused and lost feeling. Like I mentioned before, 'world' events leave me, to use mild terms, concerned and upset. I know you all don't keep up with what's happening much, but it's kind of unavoidably noticed here, with drills regularly practically shutting down the city. It's a little scary, sometimes. But mostly it just makes me very sad. There is so much sorrow in this big world. I was reassured this morning, though. I read in Isaiah 40, about God measuring the waters in the hollow of His hand. I got up and filled my own cupped hand with water, then just stood there thinking about how very big God is, and me so very small. It was reassuring somehow. My dear sister, I love you so very much. Thank you for letting me share my head. I feel so much better for it. It's bed time. The tummy's doing funny things, and I have to teach tomorrow. Pray for me when you think of it.
me

God is Excellent

Three months ago today I left home. What a very short space of time, yet how much has happened in it!

Today’s first grade class is still in the foreground of my thoughts. I decided to give my students a sort of pre-test on the same sight-words that we’ve been studying together for the past nine weeks. Poor James, one of my favorites, got eight of the ten wrong. I sighed. “Study, James! Study. Study.” Then I had him read the words back to me. He stumbled over ‘the’, was stumped by ‘to’, then his face crumpled and he burst into tears. I patted his shoulder, “It’s all right.” I’m sure he didn’t understand the words, but my tone was reassuring. He sniffed back his tears, and I helped him to sound out the rest of the list. I’m going to have to think of something ingenious if I don’t want to still be stuck on these same ten words for another two months.

I’m having a hard time getting to sleep again. Once my brain does finally shut down, I sleep like one dead, but usually it takes between three and four hours for me to even get to the drifting off stage. I lie there, not tossing, just limp. My eyes burn and my limbs ache for weariness, waiting for the sleep that will not come. Just waiting for sleep.

On Monday I began language classes at Ewha Woman’s University. Level zero. That’s like Korean preschool. It shouts at me, “How ignorant you are!” I have much to learn, and feel the urgency of it. There’s some amount of pressure, caused by recent developments on this side of the globe. Again, it’s impressed upon me that time is short. Pressure. Always that nagging pressure of a desperate need elsewhere, and I so unqualified to meet it. Sometimes I just want to lay my head down and weep for all the desperate pain and suffering in this world. And yet, as I wrote yesterday in my journal, “God is excellent. Today I read of Him destroying the world with a flood, restoring a destitute man to wealth and honor, winning a battle with zero casualties against impossible odds, and raising a girl from the dead. My God is an extreme master-planner, with limitless mercy, resources, and power at His disposal. How can I be so foolish as to get caught up in these petty concerns and troubles that fill my days? Is He not the same God now that He was then? Ought not my response to impossible difficulties be one of eager excitement as I wait for this unconquerable God Whom I serve to show Himself mighty to the world? God is indeed excellent.”

I’ve still been meeting with the two ladies on Monday. That’s a mixed blessing. Sheena helps me enormously with my Korean, which is heaven and earth to me right now. In return, she practices her English on me. She’s really quite fluent, so I don’t do much but listen. These last three weeks she’s been taking me through the Old Testament, with occasional dips now and again into the New. The topic of study has been the Passover, and how the observation thereof, on its original date, is an essential element of salvation. I will present to her, next week, why I believe that Christ’s death alone is sufficient. I’m persuaded that this won’t in any way cause her to alter her beliefs, so I'm loathe to spend valuable time on such a study. But of course, on such an issue, I can’t keep silent. I can only pray that God will use this in a way unfathomable to myself, as I continue to pursue what seems to me, in light of such afore mentioned persuasion, almost foolish.

The weather has been absolutely lovely lately. Chilly in the mornings, but sweet and balmy once the sun comes up. It makes my heart sing to be alive on such days as these have been. What a miracle nature is!

Please continue to hold me before God. I stand in hourly need of strength and discretion. I’m lately confronted with a sense of my own weakness and incompetence in a way that I’ve never before experienced. I trust that God knows what He’s about, but I do feel so very unqualified for the great task that lies at my door. Pray that He will become my sufficiency.

Missing you all dearly,
Elisabeth

No Worse Off for the Wear

Spam. Yep. Processed, over-salted, canned, pork shoulder. It's choice. It's upper-class. As Chusok gifts, SCG went all out, purchasing for each of it's 800 plus employees fifteen packaged cans of delectable Spam.

There's a lot of construction going on in the area. The ninth subway line is being put in right in front of the SCG building. It won't be completed for another two years, which is a shame. But it's fun to watch the workers go. These people don't mess around. I'm amazed at the amount of work that they can accomplish in a very short space of time. Equally amazing is their accompanying sense of propriety and decorum. Between each construction cone is tastefully placed a potted flowering plant.

Feeling sick on Wednesday, and with a pounding head, I desired neither to eat at the school cafeteria nor to fix myself lunch. Kimbop (seaweed, rice, and half dozen vegetables and meat all wrapped together) is one Korean food that I can't get enough of. Sold for only $2.00 a wrap, just around the corner from my apartment, I decided to place an order to go.
I stepped up to the counter, "Kimbop tu. Two kimbop." I said, adding the word for tuna, "ttushe."
"Neh," the counterperson affirmed, "Kimbop tu."
She reached for an ordinary roll of kimbop, without tuna. I stopped her, "Aniyo. Ttushe!"
She looked baffled, leaving me to suppose that I had the wrong word. I was quite certain that I had at least the consonants right, so I tried a different combination of vowels, "Ttusha?"
No luck.
"Tteshu? Ttoshe?"
I was becoming conspicuous. A spectacle. To my mortification, every eye in the entire establishment was now, with intrusive curiosity, gaping up at my chagrined face, and laughing smiles began to show on several of their own.
Ok. Fine. Different consonants. I took a deep breath and, pausing only long enough between each word for her expression to grow more baffled, began again, "Ttuche? Techu? Tashu?"
How supremely exasperating. "Tuna!!!" I finally sputtered, "I just want tuna!"
"Oh!" a laughing voice spoke up from behind, "Tuna. Chamchi."
With some embarrassment, I bowed my gratitude to this helpful individual. Turning to address myself again to the sales clerk, I proceeded with dignified composure, "Chamchi kimbop tu."
Oh well. The hard-earned tuna kimbop tasted delicious, and I had a good laugh with Teresa over the whole episode later, so I'm no worse off for the wear. And I now know how to order tuna.

Every now and again, the kindergarten goes on a class field trip. As their teachers, we Americans are required to go along. I don't mind at all, because we often to go very interesting places, and I get to see some parts of Korea that would otherwise remain a mystery to me. Speaking only English, we have no real responsibilities during these outings. The Korean teachers watch over our little charges, organizing and arranging everything, so we're left on our own to explore to our hearts' content. The first field trip was to a traditional village, where the royal family used to live. That was interesting, and I'll send pictures of that one of these days. The second was to a vineyard, of which I also have a few pictures.

An update on my present situation: I didn't move upstairs on the 28th as expected. Teresa and I still live together in apartment 201. This arrangement is permanent. I was uncertain, at first, about how well we two would get along. But, despite disparity of personality and taste, it's working quite expectedly well. This set up a bonus for me, because this way I'm able to save the money that would otherwise be spent on furnishing an apartment for myself. Teresa doesn't benefit from this arrangement as I do. Exceptionally gracious, she has asked me to stay, thus participating in sending me through school next year. I appreciate her generosity, and we continue to deal famously together.

My mind has lately been quite preoccupied with thoughts of the future. Specifically, how I'm to proceed (both logistically and financially) after I finish language school. The concern is, arguably, premature, but I should like to be directing my time now, in what small ways I can, toward the end at which I eventually hope to arrive. I relish not the prospect of finding myself, three years hence, at a loss as to how to proceed. Even in the midst of these concerns, though, I have been impressed with a deep sense of gratitude for God's trustworthiness. He knows, and is in every way capable and stable. There is such deep rest in that knowledge. I wrote a poem a few days ago that wraps it up pretty well:

This pensive seen upon my mind embossed:
The ruffled surface of a blue-green sea.
Foamy ripples, troubled swellings tossed
Upon the sandy shore, as if to flee
Those restless winds that chafe, and goad, and fret
The ruffled surface of a blue-green sea.
Waves swell and crest against the tempest's threat,
And ache, and sigh, and weep;
And gusty night hours creep;
And yet…the unstirred deep…

Please keep me in your prayers. I don't love God as I ought, and this troubles me. My own communication with Him has been dry lately, and I find myself missing His palpable presence with longing. But, as a dear friend so often reminds me, who am I that I should choose my way? He must use what means He will, be it dryness or discouragement or loneliness, in order to bring me to where I ought to be. And, in loving me as He does, He surely partakes of my weariness. What deep love, then, must compel Him to allow me to struggle, while His own heart weeps with mine. His compassions never fail. They are new every morning; great is your faithfulness.

I love you dearly,
Elisabeth

Disjointed Thoughts

Well, here we are at the sixth of October already, and three days into Chusok. The first was spent in a lachrymose manner, battling both boredom and a cold. The two days following, having lost the battle, found my head in that unfocused state of dull pain, able neither to stay awake, nor to sleep, and with absolutely zero powers of concentration. I spent most of yesterday wrapped in a very comfortable blanket thinking a thought that, remarkably enough, didn't become disordered with the conception thereof: "This won't last forever. It never does." And sure enough, it hasn't. This evening I feel a little better than last, though my head is still somewhat woozy, and my voice quite rough. I'm happy for tomorrows, because with them end all the long todays.

But enough. I must complete a story. On Thursday, as prearranged, I joined the two ladies mentioned in my last email for lunch. This was an interesting hour. During the first half I was asked to define the word 'non-denominational'. That was a challenge. Just as I felt that Sheena, the more fluent of the two, might be understanding, she interrupted with, "Ah, like Mormons?" Oh boy! Time to start over.
That word finally clarified, she began to present to me the Gospel story via the Passover analogy. Though this was, of course, not new to me, I listened politely, nodding at appropriate intervals. Sometimes she seemed to belabor a point. I eventually associated her inclination thus with my 'mhmmm's, and began to let my tone drop rather than raise. After that things moved on more quickly. Just at the apex of her presentation, she asked, "Do you know where the Passover was celebrated in the New Testament?" I replied that Jesus was recorded to have celebrated it with His disciples just before His death. At this response she was utterly taken aback. "How did you know that?!" I, also, was taken aback, and there we both sat. It took her a moment to regroup her thoughts and continue, and from that point I made a mental note to answer no more questions.
My time with them, both amusing and confounding, passed quickly. I left with a very interesting bit of information tucked away in my head. Sheena has just completed a course in which she was trained to teach Korean to foreigners.
The following Wednesday we met at a park, but only for a very short amount of time. Only long enough, in fact, to arrange to meet for an hour every Monday. One half hour of English practice for her, then an equal amount of Korean lessons for me. I am, needless to say, quite thrilled about this.

On Saturdays I teach forty-five minutes away, on the fourth floor of the school building. In the elevator, the buttons to each floor are marked respectively '1' '2' '3' 'F'. This curious discrepancy led, of course, to questions. The answer is confusing. The English word for 4, 'four', sounds remarkably similar to the Chinese word for death. To say this word, therefore, is a bad omen. A superstitious American won't walk under ladders, spill salt, or break a mirror. A superstitious Korean won't write his name in red, leave his chopsticks sticking up in his rice, or (heaven forbid!) say 'four', unless engaged in English conversation. But why the symbol 'F' is found less offensive than the symbol '4' (which, of itself, carries no particularly evil associations), is a mystery to me. Oh well.

I must go. My thoughts feel quite disjointed. My ears are ringing, and my eyes beginning to ache.

I am doing well, my family. I know that God completes those undertakings which He begins, and take the greatest comfort in His absolute control. I indeed serve a great and marvelous God.

Keep me in your prayers,
Elisabeth

Nothing But a Pair of Chopsticks

I can't believe it's already the twenty-eighth. September has passed stealthily.

Many interesting events notwithstanding, I find myself at a loss for words. My head is so very full, and my heart so unaccountably heavy, that the lighthearted frivolity with which I'm wont to express myself would render any stories, in this case, quite impersonal and in-apropos ([ap-r uh-poh]- a good word meaning ill-fitting or inopportune). Perhaps the major cause for this melancholy is that the Dubes moved today, leaving silent emptiness behind. There is no way for me to tell how precious that family has become to me.

On a more optimistic note, Adam and I signed up a Ewah University for Korean classes beginning mid October. I'm thrilled about this development. From every angle the course seems custom ordered: location, time, price, hours. I will be unbelievably pressed for time. There are few, if any, teachers who go to language school, and for good purpose. Both occupations are equally time consuming. But it won't be forever, I know, and will be give me a huge head start on next year. So I happily await October 16th.

Teaching is falling into a pattern, to my boundless joy. Now that I have my own classes, I'm making many modifications to the methods I had been using before. Each day preparation time is less, and my classes more focused and constructive. I'm beginning to feel like I really belong at the head of the classroom.

In just five days begins Chusok, a national Korean holiday. Everything closes down, including the school, for three days plus the weekend. So I'll have five days with which to get some rest and explore Seoul a little bit with the Dubes and Teresa. I look forward to this time with indescribable hope. 'Hope' is a strange word to use, but the feeling is a difficult one to portray. Longing. Expectation. Relief. I really need a breather.

Quite a few evenings ago I had dinner with Pyongae at her apartment. She wanted to have piping hot chicken soup with me while the weather is still warm. Heaven forbid eating chicken soup in the winter! I drank two full glasses of water before heading over, knowing that I wouldn't be offered liquid of any sort for the duration of the meal, and possibly for some time after. Many strange habits notwithstanding, I very thoroughly enjoyed my time with her, all the way down to the raw onion soaked in rice vinegar. That particular dish was, in fact, so exceptionally delectable to me that my mouth waters even now, while thinking of it. The soup was amazing, as all soup always is, regardless of recipe or cook. Two guinea hens boiled in water with three or four dried dates. Nothing more. Nothing less. To de-bone a whole chicken swimming in thin, hot broth, armed with nothing but a pair of chopsticks, requires skill, patience, and strong fingers. I have often, when partaking of this particular soup, had to discontinue eating as my fingers begin to cramp. Any more they don't feel too much pain, but I still often find my tongue sticking out one side of my mouth, and my face screwed up in focused effort to separate the tenacious edible from the equally tenacious inedible. At such times, I'm glad that small talk isn't conducted over the dinner table.

"On Friday, a week ago..."

On Friday, a week ago, I stepped out of the Little Kings (that's the name of the English school) office into the main loby. I was amazed at the chaos that greeted me. The usually quite main floor was swarming with several officers in bright orange organizing everyone and no one, fully armed police men, and men in full camo gear with gass masks. Sirens were screaming and a string of Korean words were being shouted over a loud speaker. A large crowd of SCG employees was gathered to one side, silently watching. Of course, I had no idea what was going on. The building might at this moment be colapsing around me, for all I knew, and at one point it occurred to me that, if I'd ever wanted an excuse to panic, this might be it. But there were still classes to be taught this afternoon, and lessons to be prepared. So after making sure that I had been seen (just in case, in all the commotion, they should forget about my presence), I stepped back into the other room. I heard the sirens and shouting continue, off and on, for several hours, and saw many soldiers running by the window outside, before Namsoo came down. He looked at me quizically, "What is happening?!" His manner was one of such studied, deliberate amazement that he communicated the exact opposite of what he had intended, and I immediately guessed reason for the comotion. "It's just a demo, isn't it?" If he was dissappointed, he hid it well, affirming my guess. I was later told that the SCG building was chosen at random for this "how to respond to a terrorist attack" drill. The commotion eventually subsided, leaving all as peaceful and quiet as before, so that one was really not sure if it had even ever been.

Happy to be Alive

I love the sound of laughter. A plethora of people walk by my apartment daily, young and old. Talking together. Laughing together. Others find joy in companionship, in this strange and unfamiliar place. I will find it too, someday. It is good to think about. It makes me feel cozy inside. Happy to be alive. Happy to be here.

Teresa has come back and moved in. So far it's been going well, but we are both of such different preferences and habits, that I look forward to moving upstairs on the 28th. She's a great friend, and I'd like it to stay that way.

Yesterday I began teaching by a more permanent schedule. I've been given four classes a day. While it pleases me to be teaching more regularly, I hope that this won't be an overkill. Preparation for the classes takes quite some time, and I find myself unable to throw my best into each one, as I would otherwise be. But, on a more optimistic note, most of the students that I'll be teaching are blank slates, with no prior knowledge of English at all. These classes will be so much easier than those I've taught up to this point. I will be busy, but content.

Today has been an interesting one, the recital whereof necessitates the following preamble:
Two weeks ago, Friday, I was promenading through the market. I use this verb particularly for it's expression of lighthearted pluck. It had been a good week, and I felt quitevintoxicated with the joy of life.
My quick pace was called to an abrupt halt by a voice in English demanding my attention, "Excuse me!"
I've before been accosted by strangers who want to talk to 'the foreigner'. Many of them, though not all, totter ambivalently between a state of inebriated giddiness or stupor. Such being the case, I at first made as if to ignore the voice, and moved on. But the words were repeated, and sounded judicious, so I looked around.
"You know me?" the advancing woman asked.
Quite certain that I had never seen her before, I shook my head in a puzzled manner.
"You teach my child." she insisted, "Jameen."
I didn't recognize the name, but nodded my head vigorously enough to more than compensate for its previously puzzled shake. She was, however, nonplussed as to how to continue; no less myself. Her English skills were as inept as my memory, rendering further conversation gauchely absurd. We found ourselves at something of an awkward impasse.
Suddenly her face brightened, "My friend!"
The puzzled look, despite myself, returned.
She fished her cell phone out of her purse, smiled into my enlightened (though no less astonished) countenance, and proceeded to dial the number of a friend. The phone rang and was pressed into my hands. I raised it to my ear (thinking, to my credit, "Yeobosayo? Hello?") and ejected an awkwardly expressive "Uh!"
"Uh…?" was returned, with perhaps less force and more confusion than mine had communicated.
The short conversation that ensued was, though in retrospect amusing, at present painfully uncomfortable. Somehow I survived the experience, however, and as this friend spoke more fluent English than the other, managed to explain something of the situation to her.
Returning the phone to its owner, we exchanged numbers (the thing to do), and I continued on my way, more with subdued meekness, now, than with my former cocky assurance.
The encounter was quickly forgotten, in deference to more pressing demands on my attention, and almost a week passed before I thought of it again. The reminder, though unavoidable, was not unwelcome, as it provided no small diversion. The mother of my student (I still don't know her name) sent me a text: "It's hot. Be careful." I supposed, and still do suppose, that she was referring to the weather. Though I of course laughed at such odd manner of expression, I was nevertheless gratified by her concern, and my thoughts returned to her more than once the over the course of the next week.
Four days ago my phone rang. I answered in English. That I ought to begin answering in Korean has occurred to me, but then I would be compelled to further explain that I really don't speak that language in which I have just spoken. Such prospect daunts me.
"Hello?" I answered.
"Yes." The too typical Korean response. "You remember me?"
Well, actually. "Uh…I'm not sure." What a distinctly diplomatic rejoinder.
"You talked to my friend."
Oh. Yes.
"My friend is here."
Oh.
"You talk to her."
Oh. "Sure!"
Her friend was put on, and arranged, interrupted by many 'um…'s and even more 'say again?'s, for the three of us to meet, the following Tuesday, in the market. As this stretches out over several confusing blocks, I desired a more specific location. "Halla Marteu?" I asked, suffixing a Korean '–eu' to the English word 'Mart'. "You know where?"
"Ah. Yes."
"Meet there?"
"Ah. Yes."
Thus it was arranged. Tuesday at 1:00, in front of Halla Mart, for tea. That day and hour found me, having hastily scarfed down a late lunch, at the specified location, only slightly distracted by a sale on clothes a few stands down.
The two ladies shortly joined me, and amid much giggling, blushing and covering of the mouth with the hand (these three being the typical feminine response to any uncomfortable or embarrassing situation), we properly introduced ourselves, bowed, and otherwise dispensed with the proper formalities.
"Let's eat lunch?" The more fluent of the two asked.
I donned an consternated expression, and exclaimed with exaggerated emphasis, "I just ate lunch! I am so sorry! I did not know! I thought tea!" I patted my stomach to authenticate and to demonstrate, in the event that my assertion needed clarification.
Their expressions of consternation mirrored my own, until I really began to feel a bit guilty.
"But maybe tea?" I meekly put forth, unsure of whether or not such suggestion might be considered forward.
Their faces brightened considerably enough to put me at my ease, and they promptly led me down the street, and around several corners, to a small building. Up one flight of stairs, and through a set of doors, I found myself suddenly surrounded by a dozen giggling, blushing women. This was their church building, I was told by my interpreter. These were all eating lunch together. "But you do not need to eat. We will have tea."
And tea we had. For an hour and a half we visited. They blushed and giggled often, and I was compelled to join. The blushing was a bit more difficult to farce than the giggling, but I managed to compensate by covering my mouth with my hand quite more often than necessary.
As all good things must come to an end, so did this. I eventually excused myself. But not before arranging to join them for lunch on Thursday. I'm eager to make friends outside of my small work circle, and hope that this will be a means. We shall see!

With the passing of summer, I realize in how very many ways that season brings me pleasure, the enjoyment of which will have to be tucked away until next year. Tee shirts. The cool breezes on the mountain top. Dry streets. The blues and whites and light grays of summer dress. Quickly drying hair and clothes. Iced lattes from the little cafe on the corner… *sighs dreamily*

There is much more of which to write, but if I don't quit now, this will never be sent. My love to all of you...
me

It All Seems to Work

I shall paint for you the picture, two stories below, upon which I now so languidly gaze. Over a wide gutter I see a narrow alley, rendered even narrower by such indiscriminate vehicles, new and old, as sluggishly line the street, facing both directions regardless of on which side they sit. A bright red sign is directly opposite. Its cleanliness renders conspicuous the single screaming Konglish word it sports: LOTTERIA. Three men sit on the sidewalk immediately below it, drinking beer. Across the alley way, to the right, a smartly dressed woman with a new bicycle stands in front of the "Palace Donut", a little brick-pillared, yellow and red establishment, with frosted windows and smiling pink flowers in a quaintly designed wooden flower box outside. To the left is a bakery filled with fresh, warm, sweet breads of all sorts. These three apartments are each pressed down and squished between, behind, and beneath countless others. Each sports it's own goods with more of desperation than taste, instinctively responding to the necessity to either outdo it's neighbor, or be smothered and crammed into a state of oblivion. Drooping in front of and between and behind everything, tangled electrical wires hang carelessly from one pole, here and there gathered into hasty bundles to take up the slack, before being fortuitously scooped up by the next pole, and the next. Some few people (and they are indeed people, despite my instinctive inclination to view them as 'Koreans') mill about, aimless and purposeful by turns. A man stands not too far distant, with his arm raised, pointing out some ambiguous object to the girl in hot pink who hangs on his arm. Two or three pastel colored umbrellas hide the faces of their respective owners below, despite the blueness of the sky. The green bus '02' winds its dexterous way through and around pedestrians, parked cars, and bicycles, followed by two taxis. Altogether it is a picture of jarring contradictions and inconsistencies, as every age and class and station deliberately wends its way through the scene with a clarity and ease that astounds. The business man in his spotless, pressed suite; the toddler in his dirty jumper; the elderly with his stooped shoulders; the drunk with his liquor; the street vendor with his wares; the student in his crisp uniform; the beggar with his cup; the millionaire in his sedan. This alley belongs to each individually; no person or establishment or vehicle lends any togetherness to the scene. None of it fits. Yet, in some vague and incomprehensible way, it all seems to work.

The little coffee shop from which I view this tight panorama stands out distinctly for it's simplicity and taste. It is filled with perhaps a dozen small tables, each boasting two facing, pink love seats, comfortable albeit worn. Flowers, fresh and dried, stand at each table, and occationally small green trees and bushes. A white lattice screen here, a watering pot there, natural light, tastefully soft music, and a dozen other trivialities lend the place a comfortable, lazy atmosphere. The coffee is expensive, so I won't come here often. But it's nice to get out of the house for a while. The girl who made my coffee looks to be about my age, and speaks a little (very little) English. I feel inclined to get to know her a bit.

Today, Thursday, is my day off, though I must apply the same adjective to this that can be applied to every other aspect of my life right now: temporary. I'm enjoying relaxing…really relaxing. I don't have any classes to teach tomorrow, so I don't have any prep to do. I can just sit back and enjoy. Also, yesterday I received some information about my current living situation, which greatly relieves the anxiety of not knowing one day what the next holds. I will certainly move upstairs in a week and a half, after the Dubes move out. That will be my home until Mom and Dad visit in November. After that lies the unknown. But it's such a relief to know beyond tomorrow, that I haven't the inclination to worry about December just now.

Last week I visited with the Dubes for several hours. Upon going back down to my apartment a later, I was surprised to see a different table in my kitchen. My first startled reaction was to suppose that I had entered the wrong apartment, but there were all my things, on this new table, just as I had left them. The chairs, likewise, had been replaced. This table was just as nice as the other had been, though perhaps smaller, so I was at a loss to know why the switch had taken place, or who, indeed, had effected it. To this day I it puzzles me, though I am rather inclined toward bemusement when I think on the situation. I contradictorily proceed to be even further bemused by such inclination. Oh well, such is the caprice life!

Think of me often,
Elisabeth

Categorical Seasons

The weather has changed. Korea boasts of its four distinct seasons. I used to smile at this; such distinction is not so uncommon elsewhere, that it should necessarily be considered one of the more unique things Korea has to offer. But now I understand better. 'Four distinct seasons' had more appropriately been called 'four abrupt seasons'. Summer hasn't 'turned' into autumn, nor will winter 'melt' into spring. I went to sleep on the 8th to the sound of my air conditioning unit furiously warding off the muggy heat. It was categorically summer. I awoke on the 9 th to the sound of my teeth shivering in the early morning chill, as I groped for a pair of socks. It has been categorically autumn ever since.

With the cooler weather has come decidedly less fitful sleep. Though Tylenol induced, my sleep on the first cool night felt more natural and relaxing than any theretofore. So much so, that I attempted a natural sleep the next night with such success as has persuaded me to do without the aid of Tylenol since. Thank you again and again for your prayers.

Much love...

Laughing Life in the Face

Time is rapidly passing. Much has happened between now and when last I wrote, most of which has slipped unobtrusively from the dim annals of my memory into nothingness. I shall attempt to recall what I can of these last two weeks, with as accurate detail as possible.

Firstly, Teresa moved into my apartment, with two pets, a week ago today. The next day she left to visit her family in Florida. It's the first time she's been back to America in two years. I am, consequently, left with the animals. Daive, a small, kaleidoscopic dog, all hyper affection, bears perfunctorily her irregular name. Claude is a cat – aloof, consequential, sanctimonious. Need I say more? They bear me good company, but I will be glad for Teresa to relieve me of the joys of pet-sitting in just under two weeks.

How long Teresa and I will live together, no one knows. The possibility of my moving upstairs into the Dube's apartment after they move out (around the 20th) is very strong. The probability of that arrangement being only temporary is even stronger. Having no place to really call 'home' is, perhaps, the hardest thing in being here. However, on Friday the Dubes carried one of their dressers down to my room, and having the means at least (and at last) of unpacking my clothes brings me boundless joy.

I have been substitute-teaching for Teresa. It makes me very happy to have such occupation with which to employ my days. I heartily enjoy the time with my little students, and they have latched on to me as well. I teach Monday through Friday mornings at the Little Kings kindergarten, ½ hour from where I live. In the afternoon of these same days, I teach 1 st – 6th grades at the SCG building. Each respective grade involves, of course, different lesson plans, activities, and approaches.

For my hours to be so suddenly and dissimilarly filled, especially in contrast with what they recently have been, was rather disorienting at first. Especially considering that this same week I have also taken over Beth's Saturday elementary class, which position will be permanent. This group of students is most attentive, and the subject to be taught (predominantly reading) is much to my liking. But six teaching days a week, even for so short a time, is draining. The demand for ingenuity, spontaneity, and alacrity stands in defiance of even the most lively eagerness. The Dubes, having been here for some time, understood this, and were concerned that taking these Saturday classes on top of Teresa's was a little too much. All callowness, I assured them of my capability, and really, in retrospect, I think I would do the same again. If I hadn't taken Saturday then, it may not have been open to me later. Adam waited a day or two, then as my eagerness abated, told me that he would like to teach for me on Tuesdays, giving me that day off. I confess, I don't know what I would have done otherwise. Every day my appreciation for that family grows.

One regularity, initially an inconvenience pursued more from a recognition of my need to associate more with the Koreans than for pleasure, has since grown to be a joy. Every Monday and Wednesday after lunch Pyongae and I, and sometimes Joy, walk to and twice up a nearby mountain. It's excellent exercise. The pace they keep is astounding, especially considering the fact that they wear weighted shoes. I'm glad for the opportunity to get to know Pyongae better. She speaks English with a fair amount of fluency, and I sometimes experiment on her with the few Korean words I know. The age difference between us (about ten years) is too great, according to Korean social rules, for us ever to become very close friends, but I know that she enjoys the time we spend together as much as I do.

The mountain itself is restive. It's the most interesting sensation to one moment be traipsing through a noisy, bustling city, and the next, with quite literal suddenness, to find oneself surrounded by nothing but oriental trees, bosky foliage and the sky. Lovely in every respect.

Last Sunday the Dubes and Teresa wanted to get out. Their choice of destination was a grand scale mall on nearly the other side of the city. A mall isn't really my idea of a relaxing outing, especially coupled with the fact that it's over an hour away by subway. But I didn't particularly want to spend another evening in solitary reflection, so I decided to go along for the company, if nothing else. Had I known what felicity awaited me, I would have been unable, I am sure, to bridle my eagerness. The actual destination, I discovered, was not the mall in question, but rather, a fair-sized book store located therein. A book store, nonetheless, with an English section, wherein I was soon sublimely and blissfully lost to all reality between the covers of one book or another. All good things must come to an end, and I eventually tore myself away, but not without one each of Dickens, Austen, and Christie. I revel in these delights with a hunger that only such estrangement from well written English can engender.

Another shop that has supplied me with a great deal of satisfaction is a little yarn shop around the corner. I had taken it into my head to crochet myself a hand bag, so I wandered up and down the streets of my small neighborhood, peering in at first one little shop and then another, in attempt to find the yarn with which to do so. After nearly two hours, I gave up in despair, and essayed vainly to console myself with a little sandwich and an iced latte at a near by deli. That evening I got online, looking at patterns, and conceiving in my imagination that which would never be a reality. I even looked at what it would cost to buy the yarn online and have it shipped. I suppose it had by this time become a sort fetish for me, no longer having so much to do with the purse as with the intense desire to employ myself in a thing at which I was sure to excel…a rarity to me in such a foreign environment. The next day I happened upon Joy on my way to work, and inevitably spoke of that which was still foremost on my mind. Joy has incredible English vocabulary ability, but her grasp on the usage thereof leaves something to be desired. It was quite some time before I was able to communicate to her that all I needed was the yarn. Not books. Not a teacher. Not a translator. Just yarn. When she finally understood her face brightened, and she said that after lunch she would take me to a little place that she knew of. "But," she warned, "it may be very expensive." I hadn't expected otherwise…expensive has become the norm. The little cubby hole tucked away off the street was indeed a yarn shop, but to my amusement, and initial dismay, carried no real yarn. It had imitations and substitutes enough, however, to soon satisfy me, and after some deliberation I settled on what I though would be suitable for the project I had in mind. It didn't end up being more than W15,000 for the three skeins of whatever-it-was and a crochet needle, and I came away feeling in harmony with the world, and quite contend with my purchases. The project is nearly completed, and I fortunately haven't, so far, had any repetition of such irrational drive as compelled this recent exploit.

I think that, at this point, I've written enough about personal happenstances to here justify two cultural observations. One strikes me as humorous, the other as odd. The former has to do with the police force. I constantly observe, in a state of mingled amusement and incredulity, what is to me the appearance of inflated self-importance, though I know this to be merely a Westerner's misconceived point of view. I really cannot imagine what it is that compels them to drive around with their flashing lights constantly and irrelevantly revolving, as if announcing to the world, "Look out! Here I come!" And I have to choke back laughter at the absurdity with which the quotidian plain-clothes men attempt inconspicuity. Every one of them is dressed with rigid and obvious uniformity in black and white checked shirts and black slacks. I do not attempt to understand. I merely shrug and enjoy.

A more perplexing, less easily excused actuality is the role that video games play in this society. During the adult session at English camp, when individuals were asked what different hobbies they had, the reply, "I play video games" was not uncommon. I first thought that the concept 'hobby' must not be entirely clear to these individuals; perhaps they understood it to mean, "what do you enjoy doing?" I later learned, however, that regardless of their comprehension of this word, video gaming is indeed quite the craze here. There are TV shows dedicated to those who take pleasure in watching the masters at work. Video game competitions are held among grown men. It's not uncommon for a social gathering to be wrapped around the screen in breathless delight as an unsurpassable level is conquered. I am truly amazed, and have nothing more to say on the subject.

The topic of food refuses to be suppressed. My eating habits seem as strange to the Korean as theirs do to me. It is common knowledge that, when one sits down to a meal, he cannot be fully satisfied unless he is tasting something of everything at once. Thus a little bit of this, then a little bit of that, then some of the two mixed together, then a taste of that dish over in the corner, and so on. If one only watched and never tasted, he would be quite enraptured with the remarkably painstaking delight a Korean takes in his food. Long before I had noticed this very peculiar manner of consumption, however, my eating habits had become irrevocably settled and remarked upon. I cannot feel at all to blame in the situation, given the curiously strange tastes, smells and textures of the various foods set before me. Always politely taking as much as I dare of as many dishes as I brave (and these I redundantly pronounced 'interesting' much to the general satisfaction of those to whom the preparation of the meal is credited), I circumspectly save my probably ridiculously large helping of rice for last. The delightful tastelessness of this particular food serves its purpose remarkably well in erasing from my memory all other strongly and mildly offensive tastes. I hadn't realized how great was the discrepancy between my manner of consumption and the norm until, one day, just as I was beginning to partake of my anti-analeptic rice, I was pressed to go back for more food. I felt puzzled, and must have looked it, because it was helpfully explained to me that certainly one cannot enjoy his rice without some accompanying taste. I thanked my benefactor kindly, but assured him that he was quite mistaken, that the rice was singularly delicious. He smiled quizzically, shrugged and returned his attention back to his own food. I thought no more of this encounter until, eating one day with Joy, she looked peculiarly at me. "Namsoo told me you eat funny." she remarked casually. I laughed, "What do you mean?" She explained to me what I have explained to you, while I continued with nonchalant unconcern to savor my lonely rice. I have since been asked, more times than I care to recount, "Why do you eat like that?" and my common response has become, "It's how I would eat it in America."…which is quite true. It's how I would eat it anywhere. This seems to be quite a satisfactory reply, meeting with sympathetic nods of the head, and much magnanimous condescension. They understand.

Well, thank you for putting up with my ramblings. Years from now my older and more mature self will read back over these emails and shake her head at how easily diverted she used to be. But for now, I'm glad to be able to laugh life in the face. It can be overwhelming, if one takes it too seriously.

Annyonghigeseyo (*pant, pant*),
me

Thank you for your prayers

My Family,

Allow me to begin by heartily thanking each one of you for your prayers. To know that I am being carried before our God is a greater blessing to me than any of you can imagine. I have powerful confidence in the adequacy of prayer. God hears your requests, and should He choose to disregard them, it will not be carelessly, but deliberately, leaving me with the certainty that this is indeed His will for me at present. This assurance could not be mine, were it not confirmed by your prayers.

Several people have suggested that I take Tylenol PM for a few nights, until my body begins to fall into some sort of pattern. I loathe the idea of being dependant on a drug for sleep, but desperation was stronger, in this case, than compunction. The Dubes had brought Tylenol with them from the States, such sedative not being available here, and gave me enough for three nights. The first night I fell asleep as soon as my head touched the pillow, and slept as one dead. As did I the next two nights. The fourth night I tried a concoction recommended me by Joy, one of the Korean teachers. The roots of two green onions boiled for an hour or so with four or five dates, the liquid then to be chilled and drunk. It tasted nothing like what I'd expected, but certainly no better. The aftertaste was indescribable. Unfortunately, antipathy was all the effect it provoked. I slept again fitfully. Joy was disappointed, and hastened to offer another suggestion that she insisted was quite Western: chopped onion and fish at the head of my bed for me to smell all the night. Is this antidote, I wonder, meant to lull me or to knock me out? Needless to say, I opted for more Tylenol. This I am now trying to slowly ween myself off of. I'm down from two pills to one, and will one of these nights try sleeping naturally again.

Again, thank you so much for your prayers and words of encouragement. They have lifted my spirits incommunicably.

♪"here, on the street where you live..."♪

The view to the left, as I walk out of the little alley that my apartment is tucked away in.And then to the right:I love this pic...don't know why.Why did the chicken cross the road?To get to the other side!Halla Mart, where I do most of my weekday shopping (note the escalators).And the outdoor market that I love walking through every day, on my way to work.

This particular place, needless to say, always smells to high heaven. But it does carry such an assortment of food, and I like that. Squid, octopi, stingray, etc.

This guy was a little embarrassed when I took the picture. I like this place, too. Someone is often shouting to attract attention to their wares, and then they chop it up and weigh it out right there.
The fruit is pretty inexpensive, but I haven't bought any at the market yet. I'm impatient to learn how to bargain.
Not sure what any of this is, but I thought it looked pretty interesting.

Students

Kevin, one of my favorite (though not necessarily best) students.

Gotta love 'em...


Amy, as sweet as she is adorable.

Friends

...Olivia...
I don't know if I mentioned anything about the Harvard students who came out to help with the English camp. But anyways, the evening after camp, we all did a little bit of Seoul sight seeing.
myself (of course), Greg, Saul and Paul

ShoppingDinner with Joanna, Paul, Saul and the rest of the gang.

English Camp Fun

"Dear Family..."Ice cream...not real, but yum!

Get the teachers!
Group pic with some of the older kids

English Camp Misc

"Ladies and Gents..."

Haha! I actually look like I know what I'm talking about.
Kids small groupAdults small group

English Camp Teaching

Self-explanitory, I think

For prayer...

I generally try to keep things on a positive note. It's good for the morale, and recounting humorous happenstances always puts me in a pleasant frame of mind. This blog will be different from most, in that I write it to ask specifically for your prayers. All in all I consider myself quite blessed. I think of fellow Christians in more restricted countries, and wonder how I could ever think to be discontent with that which I have. Such pious thoughts notwithstanding, much of the adjustment that I've had to undergo since being here has been quite difficult for me. Every familiar thing has been replaced with the unfamiliar, and my mind reels with the intensity of it all. The most difficult thing, and what has prompted me to ask for your prayers, is that I've not once slept the night through since coming here. Often my body is weary, but my mind won't stop working. Hyper thoughts, mostly irrelevant and worn out, just keep spinning round and round in my head until I eventually fall into an agitated, restless sleep from which I start between wakefulness and weird nightmares. Sometimes I dream with ghastly vividness. Other times the dreams are hazy and evasive, but I wake from them with a sick feeling, and a tightness all over. Needless to say, morning usually finds me quite exhausted. Unfortunately, being so physically strained really affects my perspective on and reaction to the inevitable daily inconveniences and distractions. It's really difficult for me to keep focused on anything, and also, unfortunately, takes some toll on my relationship with God. I would love to get out more in the evening after work, but usually by 7:00 my eyes are burning so badly from lack of sleep, and the world spinning so dizzily around me, that it's all I can do to climb into bed for another exhausting, fitful night. I've tried praying, meditating on Scripture. Anything I can think of. Two evenings ago, I made my mind focus on all the things I was grateful for. I ran my mind over blessing after blessing until I fell asleep, and only woke that night perhaps three or four times. I was encouraged, and tried it again last night, too, but to no avail. I had a worse night last night than I have had since being here. In fact, at around three in the morning I finally gave up and left my bed for a less frustrating and more rewarding occupation on the computer. I don't mean to dwell on it, but I really want you to understand that I need your prayers badly. It's so hard to keep a good attitude, and every little annoyance is so difficult to just brush off when I'm so tired. I either need sleep, or I need the grace to be able to trust that God's strength will be sufficient where I lack. He is always good.

Thank you so much!
Elisabeth

I hate maraschino cherries.

I mean to send some pictures soon, so that you can perhaps begin to visualize that which I write about. A picture is, after all, worth a thousand words (which statement I disagree with, by the way).

Yesterday evening I attended the English service at Every Nation Church, which Titus had told me of. It was only a fifteen minute bus ride from where I live, which fact I didn't appreciate until I learned that some of the other attendees travel for two hours, from the other side of Seoul, to get there. It was a little bit of a walk, under the blistering sun, from the bus station to the church. "How are you?" I was asked upon entering the building. "Quite warm," I replied without thinking. I introduced myself, and was introduced to several people, then we took our seats. As the music began, I found myself relaxing until I almost wanted to cry with relief. It was so indescribably refreshing to worship again as I'm used to, in my own language. I hadn't realized how much I'd missed it. We visited for almost two hours after the service, and when I finally left for home it was with many invitations to return. I certainly will.

The Korean church that I obligatorily attend in the early afternoon holds less elation for me, but is a good opportunity to talk, in a relaxed setting, with those with whom I work. We gather round for Scripture reading, communion and singing – often Christmas carols, which makes me smile. Then we eat lunch and chat in small groups together for an hour or so. I now have a Korean-English Bible, so I can follow along with the reading. I try to sing the hymns in Korean, too, though I don't get much out of them that way. Two o'clock usually finds me on my way back home, either walking through the market or hitching a ride with the Dubes, which I do often.

I've been making it a point to eat regularly. Usually when I'm on my own, I just snack on whatever, and don't really bother to cook. But I remember Naomi's charge, "Elisabeth please eat well!" and attempt to appease this memory. Breakfast is light, dinner is heavy, and lunch I usually eat with a hundred or so other employees, on the 8th floor of SCG: Kimchee (which is growing more, rather than less, distasteful with time), rice, soup, and meat (usually cooked). As a general rule, I enjoy lunch here. Occasionally I find it revolting to the point of hilarity. One day, as I made my way down the lunch line, I was pleased to see a fruit salad. I smiled in pleasant anticipation. Most fruit salads are mixed with a delicious fruit dressing and nuts; this was no exception. Peaches, pear, apple, and squid...huh?!

Today, as I walked through the market, I saw a flash of bright red and suddenly found myself craving maraschino cherries. I laughed, and promptly dismissed the notion: I hate maraschino cherries.

'Stay Alert – Stay Alive'

It has begun to be hot in earnest. Though the thermometer today only reads 33°C (about 91°F), the humidity is stifling. It's been a challenge trying to accustom myself to the metric system, its logic and practicality notwithstanding. I found an online metric converter that performs equations for everything I've need so far, as well as for some things I haven't. I use it often. However, I use the temperature conversion so often, on everything from the weather to cooking, that I've since memorized the equation for conversions between Celsius and Fahrenheit, and now can calculate the difference in my head pretty quickly. (For those who are interested: C°(9/5) + 32 = F° & (F°-32)5/9 = C° )

This afternoon I decided to disregard the heat, and went out for walk after lunch to get some exercise (I get a headache from sitting all day, if I don't take a break). By the time I got back to SCG a half an hour later I was drenched with sweat, and never so glad for the AC!

But there is nothing wrong with sweat. To support this statement I am compelled to revert to what by now must be a topic worn thin. Food is such an integral part of this society that, while I heartily apologize for subjecting you to such past and present analysis as I have, I can hardly avoid the discussion thereof. So I state that the temperature of all food served is proportionate the temperature of the given day. Honestly, the more blistering the weather, the hotter and spicier, by default, the food must be. This is not random coincidence; it is deliberately premeditated, the logic of which may be stated as follows: The more spicy one's food, the more profusely he will sweat. And the more profusely one sweats, the cooler he will (of course) become. Thus some of Korea's hottest dishes are reserved for such weather as this. I have avoided eating out lately, for obvious reasons.

Only two more 'food' observations, and then I'll move on to less worn out topics. Both are short.
Food Observation #1: Yesterday, after shopping, the Dubes and I lunched at Costco. I was heartily enjoying an enormous, hot, cheesy slice of pizza. Beth nodded her head for me to look at the table across from us. I couldn't tell what she was referring to, unless it was the huge amount of corn piled up on one of the plates. 'Know what that is?' Adam grinned at me. My stomach turned as he explained that what I had mistaken for corn was diced raw union and mustard. 'You'll see that a lot. Wherever there's pizza or hot dogs.' Oh joy!
Food Observation #2: Now that I've been here for some time, I'm no longer treated to the delicious American version of Korean food. Real Korean food is very different, and much more difficult to get used to. One taste that Koreans seem addicted to is green tea. This flavor can be found in anything from soda crackers to breakfast cereal to ice cream. They even have green tea doughnuts, for crying out loud! And what can't, by some ill chance, be found in green tea, can surely be found in red bean: pastries, fruit smoothies. . . you name it. I really have to laugh.

Easier than the food, for me to adjust to, has been the traffic. In fact, I've come to heartily enjoy what various modes of transportation there are. Subways, trains, taxis and busses are the most frequently employed. The latter two I have the most fun with. A few evenings ago the bus for which I been waiting about ten minutes came lumbering massively into view. I squeezed myself in as it rolled to a stop, reaching around and between a mass of hot, jabbering bodies for a hand-hold. The buss lurched crazily back onto the road, and my countenance remained as impassively disinterested as that of those between whom I was wedged. . .but inside I grinned. It's something like a carnival ride to be packed in like sardines, while endeavoring to maintain one's balance as the bus veers crazily around pedestrians.

The pedestrian – traffic merge is one that still startles me, though I have come to find it quite convenient. The road is primarily for wheels (though it precludes not feet), and the sidewalk primarily for feet (though it precludes not wheels). This practice at first appears quite cacophonous (forgive my misuse of this word – I'm merely attempting to be consistent with this 'primarily but not precluding' logic, as I apply a discordant sound-adjective to sight), but after a while one grows accustomed to darting across the street between moving vehicles, or to jumping aside to avoid those motorcycles that race between cars parked on the sidewalk. The horns that are so frequently and blaringly employed seem a sufficient safety measure, because so far I haven't witnessed any amazing catastrophes. 'Stay Alert – Stay Alive' would be an appropriate axiom.

Parking is a real problem in Seoul, home to 10.3 million people, a quarter of South Korea's population. That's 43,700 people per sq. mi. There just isn't enough room for parked vehicles to stay at ground level. The various solutions to this problem still amuse me. One resolution could be most aptly described as a 'car-carrousel'. Adam likened it to those glass-enclosed rotating chicken or hotdog ovens that one would find in a supermarket. I have to agree, as I watch the parked cars rotating vertically in their respectively stifling garages. The other solution is to park below ground. The parking garage at an ordinary supermarket sometimes goes down three or four levels. Still, there often isn't room enough. Once all the marked parking spaces are filled, cars will be parked where one would suppose they should be driving, perpendicularly blocking in all the parallely parked cars. But don't be misled, courtesy is still a must. If one's parking blocks another's exit, the former will leave his car in neutral so that the later can easily push it out of the way.

Not only is Seoul the fifth largest city in the world, it is also the most expensive, second only to Moscow. I can easily believe that. Walking through Costco yesterday I saw cuts of beef going for W710/g (that's over $280/lb). Notwithstanding the excellence of the cuts, I was blown away. Adam and Beth laughed at me, 'Oh, you'll get used to it. You'll have to.' I hope I get used to it soon. I still feel sick whenever I think of how much I spend every time I go shopping.

Other than this unwelcome sensation, shopping is an amusing experience. Just about every stairway in Seoul is a moving one. Those found in shopping centers are no exceptions. Most centers are either several stories high or else under ground. Space-conservation, and all that. These all have several escalators to carry shoppers and their carts from one floor to another. Just another of the many conveniences taken for granted.

Apparently to counterbalance every other expediency, one greatest of all inconveniences daily derides me. I still don't know where I'm to live. I've been here for a month and haven't yet unpacked either of my suitcases. I have no idea when this frustration will be remedied. Until it is, I shall remain very much unsettled. There's been much discussion regarding where my apartment will be, but so far not much action.

Well, I'm going to wrap this up now, despite that rather unenthusiastic last paragraph. I don't like to end on a negative note, but time is inexorable. I think my emails have been mainly composed of little cultural absurdities, and not much of my daily life. Hopefully next time I write I'll feel inclined to include some more personal happenstances.

Until then, may God bless and keep you as He has me,
Elisabeth

After all, one must either laugh or cry!

What a beautiful day it is! I really hadn't wanted to come to this camp – as in really hadn't wanted to come. The powers that be, however, dictated otherwise, and I was rather grudgingly compelled. Now, though, I dread the moment when the kids will leave this afternoon. I had so much fun with them, and really got close to a small few. I'm amazed at God's determination to bless me in spite of myself.

How strange! An ambulance just pulled up, and two RNs (or what ever they're called over here) rushed into the training center and up the stairs with a stretcher. No one seems at all concerned, and people keep milling about, laughing and chatting as though nothing is at all out of the ordinary. So I keep writing. I wonder if alarm is as shameful to express as is emotion?

Olivia wrote a note that she slipped into my hand this morning. Fortunately, most Koreans are much more skilled with their non-verbal than verbal English skills:
"First of all. thanks to you. I'm very pleased. I think that I seem to make a good friend and good teacher. I hope to speak with you a first day in here. So I was pleased speaking with you. You was help and worried for me. I can know your mind is true. You are good teacher. I think that you can become good teacher to everybody. So I hope that you give a helping hand for children that need encouragement of other people. You can do very well. Lastly. Thanks teacher and I hope to keep communication take advantage of internet. good luck your life."
At lunch I sat across from her. "I pray to Jesus first time this morning," she said, "I start to believe little bit."

The day grows warm, until even I am compelled to admit to being uncomfortably hot. But, and even though the AC is on, all the doors and windows are open. 'Inside air' is exceedingly unhealthy, I've learned. No matter how extreme the outside weather, one must not be permitted to breathe only inside air for any prolonged period of time, lest unspeakable ills befall that foolish offender. Needless to say, the AC is rendered quite superfluous in such case, and I can only suppose is left on strictly for the psychological value thereof.

My shoulders and neck have been causing me a lot of grief lately. They haven't hurt this badly, nor this constantly, in a great while. The muscles in my chest are beginning to stiffen and be sore; I suppose because they are over compensating. This concerns me a bit, besides being extremely uncomfortable. It always hurts worse when I'm sedentary, so I'm somewhat apprehensive about beginning my nearly fulltime office job. I'm more glad than ever, now, that I opted to forfeit a ride to work in favor of walking. Ten minutes each way isn't much, but it's certainly better than nothing. Perhaps the state of my back is somewhat due to the state of my mattress. If there is one spring hidden within its stubborn depths, I have yet to discover it. I've never slept on such a rock hard bed. When I sit on it, it resists with a cracking that sounds more like plywood than plywood does. My pillow was of the same caliber. That is, uncomfortable but not, thankfully, like plywood. I often woke with a headache that worsened as the day progressed, until the Dubes discovered their cause and found me a new pillow - bless them! I shall have to break down and by myself a mattress pad, too, though that will cost, I understand, upwards of W100,000. Yikes!

We ate dinner out this evening. I always have fun with that, because there are such a plethora of interesting experiences involved. One removes ones shoes at the entrance, as is done upon entering any abode, and sits on a small square mat, usually not very padded, at a very low table, just far enough off the ground for one to scoot his legs under, if he should so desire. Then begins the fun. Two or three waitress begin to carry out very small dish after very small dish of food. The first time I witnessed this phenomena I was amazed. Through the course of the entire meal, the dishes never stop coming. Pretty soon, the table is completely filled, and dishes begin pyramiding, then spilling over onto the floor. No several dish contains the same food, so each is quite communal, and much reaching, sharing and passing is conducted. This manner of consumption pleases me, because of course, it makes it so fantastically simple to avoid some of those not so appealing dishes – i.e. raw crab saturated with soy sauce, or live octopi (though I haven't yet been so privileged as to personally witness this later delicacy). Yesterday I tried a pepper that everyone swore was not hot. I, trusting creature that I am, took a large, Korean style bite. The sensation that flooded over me is indescribable. My tongue hurt. My gums hurt. My teeth hurt. My entire head exploded with a rushing, fiery heat. I brought my hands to my face, and in doing so, held aloft what was left of the pepper. Exclamations of surprise and remorse fell on my ringing ears, "Oh! You got the wrong kind. Even we can't eat those plain! Much too spicy." A gross understatement. The various reactions were amusing. Some laughter, and picture snapping (I don't want to know how those turned out), some remorse and water offering. Eventually my mouth cooled off enough for me to be able to eat again. Apparently the damage hadn't been irreparable. The rest of my meal consisted of very the safe dishes of rice and bulgogie.

Bulgogie is the very best part of any meal. In the center of each table, within everyone's easy reach, is placed live coals over which is cooked, as we watch and partake, bite-sized cuts of brilliantly flavored beef. This is either eaten alone, straight off the grill, else wrapped in lettuce with rice, garlic, bean dip, or any other food that appeals to the individual. Both are equally to die for. After dinner ice cold rice noodle soup is often served, and pieces of watermelon with those transparent, green toothpicks which are later to be employed in a rather inconvenient manner.

To pick ones teeth in public is embarrassing, but apparently my teeth are not the only ones that trap bits of food. Toothpicks must, of necessity, be employed, however timid one may be. To shield oneself from the view of others is second best, so one hand covers the mouth while the other clumsily maneuvers the toothpick around this self-constructed obstacle. I, unfortunately, had left my purse behind tonight (and hence, thoughtlessly, my floss), so I was compelled to attempt this toothpick-behind-the-hand routine, but found that it requires a greater dexterity than I have at my disposal to construe. I later learned, though, that it wasn't merely my own coordination at fault. Toothpicks here are not made of wood. Somehow, perhaps with food scraps, pigs also have access to toothpicks, but apparently consume, rather than employ, these utensils. Such usage tends to puncture the stomach, so the Koreans devised a solution: soluble toothpicks. Toothpicks, in fact, composed of cornstarch and sweet potato. Unfortunately, though necessarily for the sake of the swine, it doesn't require much coaxing to persuade them to dissolve. One has several seconds, at best, to do what one can with the worst of the food, before the tip disintegrates into a nub, and is thereby rendered useless. I finally surrendered in mock despair, and began to eat my toothpick, experiencing a momentary sense of mutual camaraderie with those lower caste of the animal kingdom. After all, one must either laugh or cry!

I'm quite exhausted, but content. God has taught me many things this last week. I have been lonely, and desiring companionship. Through this God has caused me to see my soul's need for Himself. If oneness with Him will be the result of my temporary loneliness, then I am satisfied.

Thus concludes another lengthy, randomly irrelevant missive. Thanks for putting up with my ramblings. To put my thoughts on paper is to take them out of my head where they would otherwise be spinning in endless, chaotic circles. It is therapeutic. It is restive.

My love to all of you...