Service Here Rocks

Family o' mine,

I taught Beth and Teresa how to knit last week, and we three have really gotten into it. We've discovered a multitude of little yard shops tucked away in corners here and there, which we frequent. By 'multitude' I mean three. I act as interpreter, which consists solely of, "How much is it, please?" and then translating the clerk's response back to my companions. This it gratifying, so long as she restricts herself to single sentence replies. I get lost when she goes into a spiel along the lines of:
"If you buy one, it's five-thousand won, but if you get more than one, I'll take one-thousand off the total. If you buy up to fifty-thousand won worth, I'll take a total of five-thousand won off, and throw in a pair of knitting needles."
"Oh." I respond doubtfully, and place the yarn gingerly back on its shelf.
My next project will be a pair of socks, then I'll go on an all out attempt at a sweater.

For the entirety of February the Hagwon, or English school, is on break while the school building is under construction. I still teach during the morning at the kindergarten, but that's as nothing, when the whole rest of the day is free. I'm not really certain what I'm going to do with all the free time. I'm pretty sure I'll be eager to get back to work in March. But until then, I'm enjoying the break. I've been fighting a cold for a few weeks, and on Monday a week ago, I finally succumbed to it. I feel like I haven't been able to get my feet back under me, so I'm hoping the break will do it.

I may not have gotten so sick on Monday, if I'd stayed at home. I had contemplated doing so, feeling not exactly up to par. But Monday evenings are enjoyable. "And perhaps," thought I, "Getting out will do me good." On Monday, Hapkido classes, dealing strictly with self-defense, are offered at a local church that I irregularly attend. Daryl Covington is a seventh degree black belt, and coached for two years in the National Olympics, so the opportunity to learn from him, and for free, is one I'm glad has come my way.
Classes are supremely exhilarating, though they leave me so sore that I can barely move for days afterwards. Even shifting positions in my sleep jars me painfully awake. Last Monday I practiced falling backwards onto a mat, while keeping my head tucked up to my chest. I suppose those muscles much be acutely underdeveloped, because I couldn't keep my head where it was supposed to me for the world. As soon as my body hit the mat, my head would fling backwards, slamming down with all the force of its weight. By the end of the evening, my head was beginning to pound, but I was able to stop my head just a fraction of an inch from the mat. Every muscle in the front of my neck was strained until, even standing upright, my head wobbled painfully on my shoulders. When, the next morning, I woke up sick, it was the most uncomfortable experience ever. Raw throat on the inside, and burning muscles on the outside. It defies description.
But self-pity was crushed when, a few days ago, I got a text from Daryl's 12 year old daughter, Miriah. "My dad's sick, and I'm crying." I called her, of course, but found that her tears were shed for the disappointment of a postponed outing, rather than for that sickness which was the cause thereof. After we'd gotten that sorted and properly consoled, I asked after her dad. They're pretty certain that he contracted Asian bird flu from a raw duck that he ate in China a week ago. The mortality rate among those few who have ever contracted the flu is pretty high, partly because it doesn't respond to antibiotics, so your prayers would be hugely appreciated.

I finally broke down a few weeks ago, and asked Ruth if she could hook me up with a dentist. We went together of a Thursday. She was seen first, then I was ushered into a back room. The dentist, judging from his manner, seemed find the linguistic barrier a bit awkward, but 'Ahhhh' must, I think, be a universal word, and I accordingly opened wide my mouth. Without further ado, he ran a small camera over my teeth, and within five minutes had me back in an upright position, looking at pictures of my teeth on the computer screen hanging in front of me. "You have ten cavities." He told me, with the aid of Ruth's translation. I wasn't necessarily surprised at his assessment, having been pre-warned that dentists here are cavity-happy. Nor however, did I trust it. I told him that I would go home and think about which ones to have filled.
As we left the office, I asked Ruth, "How much did it cost?"
"Why, nothing." She replied, "You didn't have any work done."
Service here rocks.

I mentioned in my last email that I was going to have to find a new place to live by the end of February. Well, that may or may not still be the case. I've heard that I might be able to continue to live at Herb Farm, my present location, for as long as I teach at SCG. I would love for that to be the case, but I'm not banking on it until it actually happens. This constant fluctuation seems to be the story of my life. But I just finished reading through Exodus, where God gives directions to Moses for the building of His temple. Those passages reveal the precision and foresight of the mind of God. Why do I concern myself with what my future holds? Why do I find myself growing preoccupied with trying to solve all the little difficulties involved? God is detailed. God is accurate. It is His work in which I involve myself. I must, then, let Him work. It is presumptuous for me to take upon myself the task of solving those troubles that are not mine to solve.

I bought a three-thousand won plant a few days ago, with showy, magenta blossoms. I like such things. They make me think of God. I've been tossing around the question in my mind, of whether or not the re-creation of beauty, be it in music or in drawing or in any other form of art, can be of itself an act of worship. I like to think that it can be, and so have picked up my pencil again, and begin to sketch a bit in the dark wee hours of the morning. Oddly enough, I'm drawn more to abstract art than I ever thought I would be. I'm curious to discover whether I can communicate such ideas as mercy, sorrow, or love through indefinite shapes and shadows. A week or so ago I depicted the last half of Romans 7 almost to my satisfaction. The sketch lacks the element of duress, but I trust that a little practice will render me more facile.

I've been a little bit discouraged with myself lately, I think. I seem to be loosing momentum on the up-hill, and am wondering how I'm going to make it to the top. It is difficult to live here. It's very alone. It makes the words of Isaiah so much more beautiful, "Hast thou not known? Hast thou not heard, that the everlasting God, the Lord, the Creator of the ends of the earth, fainteth not, neither is weary? There is no searching of His understanding. He giveth power to the faint; and to them that have no might He increaseth strength."

As always, I ask for your prayers,
Elisabeth

An Equitable Diaphragm

Dear Family,

That my emails are coming farther and fewer between is indicative that I'm finding more things here to tie myself to. I don't feel the need, so deeply, to relate my life in Korea with heretofore familiar things. On the other hand, I've never so appreciated fortification from friends back home. How shall I say it? My roots are deeper, but the wind is proportionately stronger. So don't forget about me quite yet - I count on your prayers!

Teresa and I bought a cordless a few whiles ago, which is a super-blessing. I can get things done while I talk now, so I don't feel like I'm wasting half a day when I call home on Tuesdays. That will be my last splurge for a while, though. Since I've been here, I've been keeping track of how much I spend, and on what. About a week ago, I multiplied my monthly expenses by two years. If I don't buy any more cordless phones, I should be just able to scrape through language school on what I make teaching.

That is, provided I can find a cheap enough apartment to rent. I have to find another place to live by the end of February. There are a few options before me, but each holds its own respective quirk, leaving me uncertain as to how to proceed. I'm not troubled, though. I have no anxiety. God has never failed to provide, nor will He now.

The days are very cold. I avoid the out of doors as much as possible, which while perhaps not good, nevertheless is. I contemplate making use of my apartment's five-flight staircase. It's not heated, of course, but being enclosed, nor is it bitter. The exercise would, no doubt, be good for me. But so far it hasn't passed from ponder to practice, and perhaps never will.

My students gazed quizzically, a day ago, when I randomly contracted the hiccoughs. I supposed they were just being amused, as was I myself. The malady passed quickly enough. I spoke of the happenstance, later, to Teresa.
"You know what they were thinking, don't you?" She asked.
I shook my head.
"Well, when a person hiccoughs, it means that he's eaten stolen food."
Though guiltless, I cannot plead innocent. I'm told, to my chagrin, that the diaphragm never lies!

This is my Prayer

This evening Titus, Travis, Chad and I met together in a little coffee shop just beside Hapjeong Station. I do so enjoy the warm coziness of a coffee shop! … my fingers have been resting motionless for several minutes between that last sentence and this. If there's one thing I take satisfaction in, it's the ability to communicate via writing how I think and feel with a fair amount of accuracy. But here my colliding thoughts defy prose. Several years ago I wrote a poem:


"This is my Prayer"

This is my prayer, my Master, King:
To know the life of Christ in me.
Can mortal man discern Your heart?
Of this, then, let me have a part!
With second best I cannot be
Content to live.

But one accord with You, my God,
Is hope beyond this human clutch.
My spans of sin I cannot breech.
Your righteous heights I cannot reach.
Your perfect will I cannot touch
With my own hands.

As You love, You must reach down
Into this pit of living shame!
Come free me from deception's art,
And share with me Your weeping heart,
And grant to me to bear Your name
In holy fear.

To know You and be known as Yours!
Is this naught but a foolish dream?
A thousand times my cry is Nay!
Oh, let me taste of what I pray:
This fellowship of suffering
That you desire.

What pain! Partaking of Your death!
Broken, crushed, refined until
My heart in grief to You has flown,
And I have ceased to be my own,
But Yours to move and use at will,
And in Your time.

Burn me with Your cleansing fire.
Consume me with Yourself, my Lord!
For love, demand I die to me
And live for You, that I might be
Bound to Your grief with love's own chord,
And know Your joy.

My all surrendered full to You:
Oh bliss! Oh all consuming grace!
My life compelled by this alone:
The love and agony You've known.
What moves Your heart shall I embrace
With grateful tears.

This is my prayer: My Master, King:
Proclaim through me this dulcet tune,
"Come praise Him, all ye myriad lands!"
Then let me live to be Your hands,
And gladly I will bear the wounds
That pierced Your own.


On Wednesday God rekindled this passion.