It was a crisp morning along the Han River. I stepped through the doorway of the Brownstone apartements and peered into the fog. As I began my early morning run on this frigid Seoul Seollee, I remembered a night from my teenage years.
I was with a group of FFA high school boys returning from a dairy judging contest in Fort Smith, Arkansas. We were traveling home through the Boston Mountains. Mr. Winningham was driving. At one point we swerved around a curve and literally hit a wall of fog. He continued to drive at a much slower pace. After a few minutes of silence, he said, “Gramps, I’m sure glad you can see that white line along the side of the road because I can’t see anything.”
Gramps looked alarmed. “Son, haven’t seen that white line for the last two miles.” The car came to a stop. Gramps got out and walked in front of the car. After getting his bearings, he found that white line and began to walk it. Even though he was just a few feet away, Gramps’ frail figure was often difficult to see. For the next hour, we traveled in this fashion. We had no choice but to trust in the white line and to believe that it would keep us from falling off the side of that mountain pass.
Between the night on Boston Mountain and the morning run in Yonhidong, there have been a number of fogs in my life; the decision to leave Arkansas and seek my future elswhere, grieving over the loss of loved ones, being attacked in vile ways by pious church members, fearing the worst in the complications of our son’s birth, experiencing 25 years of memories and possessions being washed away in a flood, facing financial challenges, living apart from family at a time in my life when I should be holding close to cherished relationships.
In my most confused and darkest moments there has been that silent plea, “How can I?” – “…go on; …face this; …keep up; ...love anyway.” When I would become lost in the fog, there is the abiding presence of God—guiding, loving, encouraging.
When I listen to the hearts of many around me, read the paper and see the images of daily life portrayed on TV, and walk through the streets of our cities, I know that my worst experiences in life are mere inconveniences compared to the horror and hurt of many.
It is in such moments that I find meaning and hope in the understanding that even as we struggle through the fog to walk that white line, God in Christ comes among us to hold the pain and the anger of humanity in compassionate arms and to extend a divine love that can never be explained, only experienced.
Wednesday, January 30, 2008
Push the Button and…”Click”
There is the story of a family in the Ozarks, Mama, Papa and Junior. On Junior's sixteenth birthday, they realized that he needed to see the rest of the world. Papa decided a trip to the big city would be a great birthday present for Junior.
The big day arrived. They packed the pickup and took off. After driving most of the day, they finally pulled into a nice hotel. Papa said, “Mama, you stay in the truck while Junior and I walk around. We’ll come back and get ya. OK?”
Papa and Junior walked, wide-eyed, toward the lobby. When they stepped on a mat, the doors opened automatically. They were spell bound. Inside, they stared at a chandelier, the first they had ever seen. In front of them was a rippling waterfall, and off to the side were busy shoppers going in and out of more stores than they had ever seen.
While they both stood there, silently drinking in the sights and sounds, they kept hearing a clicking noise behind them. Finally, Papa turned and saw this little room with doors that slid from the center. People would walk up, push a button and wait. Lights would come on and “click”, the doors would open. Some people would walk out and some would walk inside.
As Papa and Junior were watching, a wrinkled old lady shuffled up to the doors and then, disappeared into the small room. No one else stepped in, the doors closed. After a few seconds, the doors opened again, and there stood a very attractive young womon. As she stepped out, Papa nudged Junior and said “Junior, go get Mama!”
It seems like everyone these days is looking for a room like Papa found. Just push the right button, wait for the door of opportunity to open, and “click” --instant gratification. From the lottery to diet fads, from Jiffy Lube to Form 1040-A from SAT scores to Basketball scores – we have become a society obsessed with the quick fix. Most often we are held in the life-chocking grip of mediocrity by our own refusal to recognize that lasting quality, fulfilling spirituality, and great joy comes from hard work, great effort, perspiration and inspiration.
The integrity of the message of the Jesus is preserved only when there are those who are continually striving to improve. Such persons recognize elevators for what they are and effectively utilize the resources of life to further the vision of the Kingdom.
The big day arrived. They packed the pickup and took off. After driving most of the day, they finally pulled into a nice hotel. Papa said, “Mama, you stay in the truck while Junior and I walk around. We’ll come back and get ya. OK?”
Papa and Junior walked, wide-eyed, toward the lobby. When they stepped on a mat, the doors opened automatically. They were spell bound. Inside, they stared at a chandelier, the first they had ever seen. In front of them was a rippling waterfall, and off to the side were busy shoppers going in and out of more stores than they had ever seen.
While they both stood there, silently drinking in the sights and sounds, they kept hearing a clicking noise behind them. Finally, Papa turned and saw this little room with doors that slid from the center. People would walk up, push a button and wait. Lights would come on and “click”, the doors would open. Some people would walk out and some would walk inside.
As Papa and Junior were watching, a wrinkled old lady shuffled up to the doors and then, disappeared into the small room. No one else stepped in, the doors closed. After a few seconds, the doors opened again, and there stood a very attractive young womon. As she stepped out, Papa nudged Junior and said “Junior, go get Mama!”
It seems like everyone these days is looking for a room like Papa found. Just push the right button, wait for the door of opportunity to open, and “click” --instant gratification. From the lottery to diet fads, from Jiffy Lube to Form 1040-A from SAT scores to Basketball scores – we have become a society obsessed with the quick fix. Most often we are held in the life-chocking grip of mediocrity by our own refusal to recognize that lasting quality, fulfilling spirituality, and great joy comes from hard work, great effort, perspiration and inspiration.
The integrity of the message of the Jesus is preserved only when there are those who are continually striving to improve. Such persons recognize elevators for what they are and effectively utilize the resources of life to further the vision of the Kingdom.
Sunday, January 27, 2008
The Dear Leader
Tiger Woods should be thankful that Kim Jong Il, the reclusive North Korean dictator, is too busy running his country to take part in international golf tournaments. According to official media reports, the "Dear Leader", as he is referred to in North Korea, got five holes-in-one and finished 38 under par on his first ever game of golf this last fall.
Kim, a keen golfer these days, reportedly hits three or four holes- in-one each time he plays. With that sort of golfing ability, perhaps Kim Jong Il would be better off leaving the running of the country to others. Playing in international golf tournaments in order to earn some hard currency to help the ailing North Korean economy would make him a dearer leader.
Lee Myong-bak, the president elect of South Korea is looking forward to playing a round with the dear leader. It may not last 18 holes though. I understand Lee likes to use a baseball bat.
Kim, a keen golfer these days, reportedly hits three or four holes- in-one each time he plays. With that sort of golfing ability, perhaps Kim Jong Il would be better off leaving the running of the country to others. Playing in international golf tournaments in order to earn some hard currency to help the ailing North Korean economy would make him a dearer leader.
Lee Myong-bak, the president elect of South Korea is looking forward to playing a round with the dear leader. It may not last 18 holes though. I understand Lee likes to use a baseball bat.
The Miracle of Traveling
I have been traveling in Japan and Korea the last few weeks. When I arrived in Tokyo, I found out the Hotel did not have reservations for me--no room in the inn. I shared with them that I had no place to stay as an alternative. They graciously called other hotels on the train line. No vacancy. The young man at the desk apologized and forlornly told me they could not help.
I told them I understood and that I deeply regretted the fact that I would be taking up space in the lobby for the next two nights--I hoped that was OK, and thanked them for their efforts. He once again looked over his reservations and found an unconfirmed reservation for the suite. Since I only wanted a single, he would give me a price break and only charge me 26,000 Yen ($260) per night. I regretfully explained that my travel budget just would not allow that, and began to settle into one of the lobby chairs.
Then a miracle happened!! ;-) He found a single room, just one left!
I settled into the chair, dropped my shoes on the floor, began to rummage thru the luggage for my tooth brush and said ever so kindly that I did not want to deprive another customer a room, if it had already been reserved. I was quite comfortable in the chair--and by the way, would he watch my luggage while I tidied up in the restroom?
Well, that just would not do. I am such a loyal customer, and would I please accept a discount on the room, and as the second desk clerk began to pick up my things and move toward the elevator, the desk clerk with whom I was having the conversation remembered that I would need internet access... Ain't life good? Sometimes I love my job so much I ....
I told them I understood and that I deeply regretted the fact that I would be taking up space in the lobby for the next two nights--I hoped that was OK, and thanked them for their efforts. He once again looked over his reservations and found an unconfirmed reservation for the suite. Since I only wanted a single, he would give me a price break and only charge me 26,000 Yen ($260) per night. I regretfully explained that my travel budget just would not allow that, and began to settle into one of the lobby chairs.
Then a miracle happened!! ;-) He found a single room, just one left!
I settled into the chair, dropped my shoes on the floor, began to rummage thru the luggage for my tooth brush and said ever so kindly that I did not want to deprive another customer a room, if it had already been reserved. I was quite comfortable in the chair--and by the way, would he watch my luggage while I tidied up in the restroom?
Well, that just would not do. I am such a loyal customer, and would I please accept a discount on the room, and as the second desk clerk began to pick up my things and move toward the elevator, the desk clerk with whom I was having the conversation remembered that I would need internet access... Ain't life good? Sometimes I love my job so much I ....
Changing Seasons
McDonald's took their Christmas tree down this week.
Christmas decorations, from the tacky to the pristine, are erected during the first week of December. Most stay until Sollee, lunar New Year. The lavish decorations are matched by the New Year presents that adorn tables in every store. Gifts wrapped for this special occasion include everything from toilet paper to dried fish, mouthwash to underwear. I applaud the Koreans for their practicality in gift giving!
But, McDonald's is a multinational corporation with it's own holiday schedule. Christmas is down. Valentines' Day is up. I can't wait to see the St. Patrick's Day decorations--in Korea.
Christmas decorations, from the tacky to the pristine, are erected during the first week of December. Most stay until Sollee, lunar New Year. The lavish decorations are matched by the New Year presents that adorn tables in every store. Gifts wrapped for this special occasion include everything from toilet paper to dried fish, mouthwash to underwear. I applaud the Koreans for their practicality in gift giving!
But, McDonald's is a multinational corporation with it's own holiday schedule. Christmas is down. Valentines' Day is up. I can't wait to see the St. Patrick's Day decorations--in Korea.
KimChi Pot Pie
Friends gathered last night for a going away party. The Canadian missionary invited a few dozen folks over to my place for dinner. Since Seoul this week has been as cold as the Yukon, I thought I would fix a little something that conjured images of hearth and home.
Ingredients, though, have to be carefully planned because of limited selection at the local market for spices, herbs and "stuff." (Like, I can find 14 kinds of cabbage in the fresh produce section, but no green beans or peas; huge carrots, but what's a celery stick?)
So, I decided a simple pot pie would be different enough to get the attention of the Korean palate. (I treat my friends here like my kids--always experimenting on them with new flavors and fusion. . . and, of course, they treat me like the kids do . . . "Yuk!" or "tell me what's in it before I eat it." --we do have fun.)
In my fantasy, I am serving these little individual ramekins with a delicious chicken stew center topped with a golden crust. The picture in my mind would make a fantastic photo in Gourmet magazine. Of course, reality dictates two 9X12 baking pans filled with a concoction made from leftovers or frozen COSTCO.
The crust, not quite enough to cover the entire pie in one pan, was an anemic pastel color, but luckily tasty and crisp. I nailed the dough this time! Yes, butter makes the difference. I thought my inspired fusion of rubbed sage and cinnamon in the pie was fabulous. Frying the chicken first and dumping the bits into the pot was a winner.
The crew arrived and were lavish in their praise--of the smell; nothing like baking brings out the am ore'. Several brought traditional dishes to compliment the "main dish." When line winding into the kitchen began to move, the hesitation and "picking" with the chopsticks began as they sniffed and poked and looked. Manners required and small portion on each plate.
The kids rolled a bite or two around the tongue then dug in and got back in line. The sophisticated adults were more reserved. It was just too--well, too different, didn't have that bite that flames the throat and flares the nostrils like good Korean food.
I went to the fridge. Yes. kimchi on the top shelf. With chopsticks in hand, I walked over to the table and plopped a fermented cabbage leaf on top of the plate nearest me. "Now try it!" I instructed." With pie and kimchi between the chopsticks, she said, "Mmmmphf, thisssis great!" The kimchi disappeared.The pot pie disappeared. The party was a grand success!
Ingredients, though, have to be carefully planned because of limited selection at the local market for spices, herbs and "stuff." (Like, I can find 14 kinds of cabbage in the fresh produce section, but no green beans or peas; huge carrots, but what's a celery stick?)
So, I decided a simple pot pie would be different enough to get the attention of the Korean palate. (I treat my friends here like my kids--always experimenting on them with new flavors and fusion. . . and, of course, they treat me like the kids do . . . "Yuk!" or "tell me what's in it before I eat it." --we do have fun.)
In my fantasy, I am serving these little individual ramekins with a delicious chicken stew center topped with a golden crust. The picture in my mind would make a fantastic photo in Gourmet magazine. Of course, reality dictates two 9X12 baking pans filled with a concoction made from leftovers or frozen COSTCO.
The crust, not quite enough to cover the entire pie in one pan, was an anemic pastel color, but luckily tasty and crisp. I nailed the dough this time! Yes, butter makes the difference. I thought my inspired fusion of rubbed sage and cinnamon in the pie was fabulous. Frying the chicken first and dumping the bits into the pot was a winner.
The crew arrived and were lavish in their praise--of the smell; nothing like baking brings out the am ore'. Several brought traditional dishes to compliment the "main dish." When line winding into the kitchen began to move, the hesitation and "picking" with the chopsticks began as they sniffed and poked and looked. Manners required and small portion on each plate.
The kids rolled a bite or two around the tongue then dug in and got back in line. The sophisticated adults were more reserved. It was just too--well, too different, didn't have that bite that flames the throat and flares the nostrils like good Korean food.
I went to the fridge. Yes. kimchi on the top shelf. With chopsticks in hand, I walked over to the table and plopped a fermented cabbage leaf on top of the plate nearest me. "Now try it!" I instructed." With pie and kimchi between the chopsticks, she said, "Mmmmphf, thisssis great!" The kimchi disappeared.The pot pie disappeared. The party was a grand success!
Thursday, January 3, 2008
The Taxi Ride
The Taxi Ride Chengdu, China 7 June 2006 I'll share my latest little adventure for your enjoyment. :-)
As time came for me to leave the Youth Hostel in the beautiful city of Chengdu, my friend, Lisa, was going to assist me in hailing a cab. After four or five whizzed right past us, Lisa stepped into the middle of this six lane street and as all traffic in three lanes screeched to a stop, my ride to the airport appeared. After an animated conversation between Lisa and the taxi driver, (all taking place in the middle lane with traffic going on both sides,) the fare was agreed to. I hopped in and we were off. This taxi driver enjoyed running red lights, making left hand turns from the right lane on red lights, driving the wrong way on one way streets, driving on the sidewalk when the traffic was too slow for him, and yelling at people who dared to get in his way with their bicycles. (I'm not kidding-no exaggeration!!!)
Anyway, this guy was not about to spend any money on the toll for the brand new beautiful airport highway that gets you there in 10 minutes--nosiree! We went down so many back roads and side streets in little neighborhoods that I was beginning to think I was being hijacked. All the while, with hands barely on the steering wheel, arms flying everywhere, as the driver kept an exciting travelogue going, pointing at this house or that road, waving at passers-by (often with his middle finger) for my entertainment.
Finally, he pulled to a stop in a cloud of dust as he encountered a vehicle blockade in front of a small bridge over a canal. On the other side of the moat--canal, was a maximum security facility that was right out of the movies. A man came toward the taxi yelling and waving his arms. The taxi driver got out of the car and began the same form of communication. Of course, as these things usually work out, in a moment, they abruptly stopped, the man got in the backseat of the cab (I was in the front seat), the driver got in the cab and began to drive across the bridge while another person stopped traffic on the other side. And, by the way, the fare just doubled.
At this point I am convinced we are going through the prison gate just ahead (it was opened while we were crossing the bridge and two guards appeared waving machine guns). The driver weaved right and we followed a narrow path between the prison wall and the moat. At last we came to an intersection of six muddy dirt farm roads going out across rice paddies.
The man in the backseat, who talked non-stop through out this portion of the trip, was yelling an waving which direction to go as we traversed these fields for about 15 minutes. I could now see that we were approaching an eight foot high fence and as an airplane moved overheard at what I swear could not have been more than a hundred feet above us, I realize we close to the airport.
The fellow in the backseat yells to stop, or at least I think he did, because I can no longer hear. He gets out of the car. The driver pays him some money and off we go. We are now driving parallel to the fence on a dangerously rutted road.
As we turn a corner, I can see the terminal in the distance. We both also see a garbage dump immediately in front of us. The driver slams on the brakes and motions for me to get out of the car. After much arm waving and yelling, having my luggage thrown out of the car and having my hand slapped, I, of course, understand that I have now "arrived" at the airport and it is time to pay the taxi.
I am now standing on a pile of garbage, my ears still ringing from the roar of the jet, with my luggage, trying to find a walking path to get around to where the terminal is. I walk about 500 meters and one of those motorcycles hooked up to a rickshaw begins making its way towards me. The driver is most happy to take me to the front door of the airport--for a fee, of course. Two hours after leaving the hostel, I arrive safely at the terminal with one more little story to tell the grandchildren--assuming I will have any--and assuming I can remember anything...
As time came for me to leave the Youth Hostel in the beautiful city of Chengdu, my friend, Lisa, was going to assist me in hailing a cab. After four or five whizzed right past us, Lisa stepped into the middle of this six lane street and as all traffic in three lanes screeched to a stop, my ride to the airport appeared. After an animated conversation between Lisa and the taxi driver, (all taking place in the middle lane with traffic going on both sides,) the fare was agreed to. I hopped in and we were off. This taxi driver enjoyed running red lights, making left hand turns from the right lane on red lights, driving the wrong way on one way streets, driving on the sidewalk when the traffic was too slow for him, and yelling at people who dared to get in his way with their bicycles. (I'm not kidding-no exaggeration!!!)
Anyway, this guy was not about to spend any money on the toll for the brand new beautiful airport highway that gets you there in 10 minutes--nosiree! We went down so many back roads and side streets in little neighborhoods that I was beginning to think I was being hijacked. All the while, with hands barely on the steering wheel, arms flying everywhere, as the driver kept an exciting travelogue going, pointing at this house or that road, waving at passers-by (often with his middle finger) for my entertainment.
Finally, he pulled to a stop in a cloud of dust as he encountered a vehicle blockade in front of a small bridge over a canal. On the other side of the moat--canal, was a maximum security facility that was right out of the movies. A man came toward the taxi yelling and waving his arms. The taxi driver got out of the car and began the same form of communication. Of course, as these things usually work out, in a moment, they abruptly stopped, the man got in the backseat of the cab (I was in the front seat), the driver got in the cab and began to drive across the bridge while another person stopped traffic on the other side. And, by the way, the fare just doubled.
At this point I am convinced we are going through the prison gate just ahead (it was opened while we were crossing the bridge and two guards appeared waving machine guns). The driver weaved right and we followed a narrow path between the prison wall and the moat. At last we came to an intersection of six muddy dirt farm roads going out across rice paddies.
The man in the backseat, who talked non-stop through out this portion of the trip, was yelling an waving which direction to go as we traversed these fields for about 15 minutes. I could now see that we were approaching an eight foot high fence and as an airplane moved overheard at what I swear could not have been more than a hundred feet above us, I realize we close to the airport.
The fellow in the backseat yells to stop, or at least I think he did, because I can no longer hear. He gets out of the car. The driver pays him some money and off we go. We are now driving parallel to the fence on a dangerously rutted road.
As we turn a corner, I can see the terminal in the distance. We both also see a garbage dump immediately in front of us. The driver slams on the brakes and motions for me to get out of the car. After much arm waving and yelling, having my luggage thrown out of the car and having my hand slapped, I, of course, understand that I have now "arrived" at the airport and it is time to pay the taxi.
I am now standing on a pile of garbage, my ears still ringing from the roar of the jet, with my luggage, trying to find a walking path to get around to where the terminal is. I walk about 500 meters and one of those motorcycles hooked up to a rickshaw begins making its way towards me. The driver is most happy to take me to the front door of the airport--for a fee, of course. Two hours after leaving the hostel, I arrive safely at the terminal with one more little story to tell the grandchildren--assuming I will have any--and assuming I can remember anything...
Demonstrations--from May 2007
I had an encounter with a demonstration today....meaning I turned a corner downtown and found myself facing 2000+ folks waving placards and chanting slogans in protest of the coming APEC (Asia-Pacific Economic Conference) meetings at the end of the week. Riot Police were everywhere looking quite intimidating--multiple rows of shields, shock sticks, helmets, the whole enchilada! Self-righteous young men raging in bullhorns to stir the crowd. Police cars and even a tank moving up and down the street. Well, that was the picture. What took place was actually quite different. I, and other pedestrians caught up in it with me walked through the crowd without incident. "Rioters" were ever so polite in letting us through, saying "excuse me," etc. Police were visiting and joking with the crowd. Everyone seemed to be having a jolly good time. I made my way to the subway station and continued on. Ahh, just another day in Seoul!
I had an encounter with a demonstration today....meaning I turned a corner downtown and found myself facing 2000+ folks waving placards and chanting slogans in protest of the coming APEC (Asia-Pacific Economic Conference) meetings at the end of the week. Riot Police were everywhere looking quite intimidating--multiple rows of shields, shock sticks, helmets, the whole enchilada! Self-righteous young men raging in bullhorns to stir the crowd. Police cars and even a tank moving up and down the street. Well, that was the picture. What took place was actually quite different. I, and other pedestrians caught up in it with me walked through the crowd without incident. "Rioters" were ever so polite in letting us through, saying "excuse me," etc. Police were visiting and joking with the crowd. Everyone seemed to be having a jolly good time. I made my way to the subway station and continued on. Ahh, just another day in Seoul!
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