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