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