The Issue of Tissue

I was standing in the aisle at Walmart--I forget why. Anyway, it struck me that we Americans have a tissue for everything. Specialty thin paper--one for our butts. Another for our face. Tissues for our hands. Bigger and bold for "cleaning up spills."

I walked down the aisle and counted nine different tissues in fourteen different sizes. They are packaged in cardboard boxes, plastic wrappers, in small quantities and in bulk.

In most of the world where I travel tissue is found on a roll. This one size and style is capable of taking care of any personal hygiene need. Wipe your tears. Wipe your butt. Wipe your nose. Dry your hands. Mop your brow. Clean your toes. No matter--just pass the roll.

But we are just getting started. Need to clean the plate? Wipe the mess off the floor? Wipe the dipstick? Layer the deep fried potatoes to absorb the oil? Swish the subway seat? Toss me the roll.

I applaud the new emphasis in the national political arena for saving the environment... one way to start is to simplify our obsession with dressing up and diversifying good ole TP.

Run, Moksa, Run

On one of my weekly running routes, I have become the celebrity of the corner shopkeeper with the bullhorn. During a run last fall, it was hot. So, I stopped to buy a bottle of water and we got to chatting in Konglish. He asked and I told him, so now he calls me “Moksa” (Pastor). Anyway, he often stands out in front of the store on the sidewalk and “hawks his wares” with a bullhorn. Because the store is close to the bus stop, there is always a crowd of people around. I turn the corner and there he is, bullhorn in hand. He yells into it, “Run, Moksa, Run.” And then, he goes into this mantra of konglish with the crowd. The only thing I understand as I keep going, waving my hand, is “Run, like the devil, run towards heaven, run, moksa, run.” This last trip, he must have seen me a block before, because he had the crowd wound up. There they were, all chanting and waving as I waddled by. There are moments…

Numbers

I like numbers. Numbers give me a reality check when ideas take me beyond the horizon. Numbers tell stories. Numbers can hide the truth or expose the truth. The right set of numbers help me sleep at night. The wrong set--well, sleep doesn't come so easy. Here are some numbers. They are important. But what do they tell us? What are the stories behind the numbers? I am especially interested in how the first and last numbers were calculated.

126
Number of Christian missionaries murdered throughout the world since 1999
25
Christian missionaries killed in Columbia since 1999, making it the most dangerous country on earth for Christian ministers
16,600
Number of Korean missionaries stationed around the world in 173 countries since 2006
173,000
Estimated number of Christians killed for their beliefs around the world in 2006.

A Quiet Sunday Evening

Ok, kids, I’m going to fess up. You know how hard I work in Asia! And the hassle… the language problem, the Asian facination with the fat old white man the waaaay too long away from home syndrome, yada, yada.

Well, there are times that I wouldn’t trade this trippin’ for the powerball lottery—yes, we even heard about the big winner over here.

So, I’m in Tokyo with Richard Betts and we are trying to figure out the accounting system. In the middle of the financial foreplay with the accountant, Ikagami-san decides to call George, and then hands the phone to me. George want asks me if I want to go to a concert Sunday night. I said, “Sure, count us in.”

Now the last time I went to a “concert” with the Azumas, we wandered through a back neighborhood for an hour before we came upon a little church where we witnessed a lovely classical senior music major concert of their daughter who plays the cello.

Now before I go any further, hit http://vids.myspace.com/index.cfm?fuseaction=vids.showvids&friendID=1000575362&n=1000575362&MyToken=81eba4e3-5f81-4880-b164-8bf0a29a829d and play the video, don’t read any further, go ahead.

If it doesn’t come up, try http://home.att.ne.jp/grape/georgeazuma/English/5Xmenu.html, click the My Space bar and then click My Videos

Hey, now let me continue. I hope you enjoyed that! George and Hiromi are active members of our little congregation. George is an Elder. Hiromi is the church organist. The worship service on Sunday is quiet, nice, typical Community of Christ worship. Sunday morning, we sang “Happy Birthday” to Hiromi.

Anyway, Richard and I spent the rest of the day in meetings and by 7:00 p.m. were on a train to Shin-juku, We considered McD’s and flopping on the bed in the hotel room for the evening, but decided we didn’t want to disappoint the Azumas (After, all, they may be saving us a seat on a church pew somewhere!) So, off we went. We gave the address to a taxi driver and watched as he GPSed us and then got lost.

Finally, we stop in front of a small neighborhood bookstore. We don’t see anything to indicate a concert, so wander off up the street. I ask for directions at the corner 7-11. They send us back to the bookstore. Sure enough, around the corner, down the stairs, through two sound proof doors, and we are in a little bar. We are escorted to a table on the front row of three rows, facing a stage the size of Bob Watkins’s pickup truck bed. However, on that stage were eleven Japanese men playing the hits of the ‘60’s and ‘70’s: a tribute to the Beatles, a taste of classic Motown, grooving to the Bee Gees…. They were as bald and grey as me. Their singing English was pretty good, but Richard and I both agreed they hadn’t a clue what they were singing. It was a hoot. It was a great set and I was groovin'--reliving the music of my youth.

Their music finished, the stage cleared for the next act. Richard leaned over and observed that this was no church concert. Out comes the new band—Moonrocks. Hiromi, as lead singer, captured the stage. George, with the lead guitar, danced all over everything. I kept trying to keep the picture in my mind of the morning show: sweet Hiromi at the organ patiently leading the congregation in singing, George presiding and translating my sermon. Didn’t work. Go to Hiromi’s website: http://www.geocities.jp/moon_rocks_hiromi/ to capture the flavor, the essence, the heart of Moonrocks. George kicks it up a notch with his band 5X ( http://home.att.ne.jp/grape/georgeazuma/ )

Well, of course it’s in Japanese, now you know as much as I do!

Around 10:00 p.m. Moonrocks left the stage and Richard and I were standing to call it a day—but, wait, there’s more! The band comes back on for an encore with Panta!!!!

Real name: Haruo Nakamura. He is a 50 year old “fabulously famous” "cult" rock star--singer/writer/composer in Japan. I cannot describe the energy—think Mick Jagger in his twenties. By the time he was done with the first number, I really thought he was going to have a heart attack. An hour later, we are being introduced to all the musicians, day jobs: insurance salesman, real estate, fire department, teacher.

I’m sure Richard was talking to me in the taxi on the way home, but I didn’t hear a thing. As the hearing slowly came back, I was trying to figure out how to get the kids in the brand new handbell choir I have started in Seoul to give me that kind of energy and enthusiasm. (Kids here, even on the music scene are taught to be quiet, reserved…so handbell choir so far has been about precision—technique—rather than music and emotion. And of course, being directed by Mr. Boredom in English doesn’t help!)

I love Asia. I love the diversity and inclusion that is at the core of the message and mission of the Community of Christ. And Moonrock Rocks!

Cookies

Greetings from Seoul, Korea where we live just 50 miles from a government that sends up missiles without knowing where they will come down and whether or not they will explode. The political commentary here goes from denial to full-scale war. Then we have Korean-American FTA talks threatening the rice farmers. Add these two plus the news that Korea has the fifth highest murder rate for women (Koreans very embarrassed, only way to "save face" is to point out to every American that U.S.A. is NO.1 on that list) to the monsoons, typhoons, and cyclones and the stew here is at boiling point. The U.S. Embassy last fall temporarily issued travel warnings for various parts of Seoul. What a fascinating time we live in.

I stopped in to eat a sandwich the other day in a little (one table for two, counter for eight) shop. I had baked some cookies--with chocolate chips from home, can't be found here--to share with the shop owner. She and I have become "friends" over the last few weeks, after I stopped in one night for coffee and wound up helping her eight year old daughter with her homework.

Now, chocolate chip cookies are treasured here in Korea and my wife Lynn's recipe is really quite good. I can only take so much kimchi and red bean paste and then I have to make something that reminds me of home. But, cookies are to be shared, right? So, I pull the cookies out of my computer bag, just as two "ahjimahs" enter (little old ladies with attitude--famous across Korea, feared by anyone across the counter from them, obeyed by government officials-bus drivers-traffic cops...).

There are two younger women sitting at the table. The Ahjimahs are not interested in sitting at the counter, so the ladies graciously move to the counter and the Ahjimahs settle at the table. They order a drink, that once delivered is not acceptable--never did catch why. I am sharing the cookies with the two gracious ladies and an ESL teacher at the counter.

Ahjimah 1 spies the cookies and says something to Ahjimah 2 who then says something to the owner. She responds and then asks me if they may have one. I pass them (about two dozen) along. Well, the cookies now stay at the table. Ahjimahs are laughing and having a great time--and eating one after the other. After visiting for a while with the ESL teacher, I realize that the cookies are no more. I might as well be on my way.

As I get up to leave, Ahjimah 1 slaps me on the back with a hearty #$%$#$@#@!;-) while Ahjimah 2 grins and jabbers. They yell something to the owner, who meets me at the door. She says they want to know when I am coming back with more cookies, they want to be sure and be there when I do.

Next: Apple Dumplings!

Wall of Homeland Security

My love for my work has taken me to places far from home. Currently I am residing in Seoul Korea where I love the people who are around me; I love the the culture and country, and I love the energy of the city! But... family, close friends, the familiar landscape of the Midwest, that is where my home is. So, what to do?

After experimenting with a number of ideas, I settled on posting my life and my family on a wall in the bedroom. Not very creative, I know. But it works. The wall is the first thing I see in the morning and my last image as I end my day.

My wall listens as I practice my sermons.
My wall mocks me as I attempt my push-ups and sit ups on the floor below.
My wall sings along to my butchered imitations of Willie and Johnny. My wall quietly observes my frantic pecking at the computer. My wall offers no criticism of my many faults and cracklines. The cards and photos are a constant source of joy and strength.

Each photo, each card, each written line stapled to the wall brings alive treasured people, places and experiences that provide a constant source of inspiration for my days in another world that has also become a world of joy and hope--but still another world.

There are many ways to define homeland security. For some of us, it is doing the things that ground us in our homeland where we are safe, protected, secure--yet propels us into the larger world where we offer, through our lives joy, hope, love and peace--making all secure.

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 ....

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.

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!

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...