Pressing On

"...[O]ne thing I do, forgetting those things which are behind 

and reaching forward to those things which are ahead, 

I press toward the goal for the prize 

of the upward call of God in Christ Jesus."  

--Phil. 3:13b-14

If I have learned nothing else this past year, it is that I have the ability to change.  And with it the God-given responsibility to do so.

"How many of you make New Year's Resolutions?" I heard the young preacher ask the last Saturday of 2012 as I sat squirming in the middle of the meager congregation.  He had just read from Phillipians 3 about the Apostle Paul pressing onward to lay hold of his prize.  From this passage, the preacher had built a solid argument for why we should both use our time wisely and not cling to what was left in the past.  This meant that procrastination and self-pity, two of my worst nemeses, were no longer an option.

"I know some people out there don't set New Years Resolutions," he continued--I being chief among them.   My reasoning was thus:  Wasn't having a resolution just a meaningless ritual that was never followed through?  These things were for the unbeliever anyway; it was for them to turn over the new leaf, not us, because we already have new life in Christ.  And if this new life were all about grace, why try to pull yourself up by your bootstraps through your own good efforts?

What I failed to see was that these sorts of "meaningless rituals" could actually be a vehicle for the life God calls us to.  "I would encourage yo to [make these resolutions] and to make your goals measurable," the preacher went on.  "Do you feel like God is calling you to start a business?  Take steps to make that happen.  There is very little that happens in your life that you cannot control.  It matters what you do with what you're given."

I've seen much in my life in 2012 that needs changing--be it attitude adjustments, worn-out habits, or my limited field of view.  This may not be an exhaustive list--and at the end of 2013 not all of it may have been accomplished--but the following provides at least a snapshot for where I want to go in the coming year and what in my life I can truly change.

Goals for 2013

*Publish my first book

*Pen the first completed draft of my grandfather's biography

*Provide for myself by means of regular work and my own house

*Publish 1-2 blog entries/articles a week

*Pray systematically and consistently

*Set up regular dates with close family and friends

*Exercise 3 times a week

*Add three songs to my clarinet repertoire and make them concert-ready

*Finish one crochet project a month

*Finish a queen-sized quilt by hand

*Start a master's degree program

*Earn my teaching certificate

The last thing the preacher said that night still rings in my ears: "Don't allow your past to cripple you and make you worthless for God."  The past doesn't necessarily mean the absolute-worst-thing-I've-ever-done; it could just be the way I've always done things.  If I were honest, I might say that the way I've always done it has never quite worked, and continuing to do things that way just perpetuates the cycle and puts me that much farther behind.  I don't want to give myself a handicap before I even step inside the starting block.

Christmas Letter

My Christmas tradition has been to write an end-of-the-year letter that encapsulates where I feel the LORD is leading me in the coming year and what I hope to look forward to.  Here is this year's installment.

Beloved Friends and Family

Merry Christmas once again, my sweet loved ones. There is much to celebrate in this blessed season. Yet even as I write these words I know that for some of you, 2012 has been not a year of joyous celebration but one of loss and sorrow. However, no matter the season in our lives we can be confident that, as Philipians 1:6 says, “He who began a good work in us will perfect it until the day of Christ Jesus.”

Whatever loss we have faced this year, loved ones, it does not have to define us. Our lack may simply be a tool for the LORD to bring us closer to Him. This is a lesson that I have had to face head-on recently, but even in this I can be thankful: The LORD has seen me through these times and has given me good things to celebrate in the midst of them.

Two thousand twelve opened with me privately tutoring a young boy with special needs named Sam. Having unsuccessfully searched for employment in the months after returning from Korea, I found the job through a friend and former co-worker that had recommended me by name. Sam has been a bright spot for me this year in his goofy, fun-loving way, and serving his family has been such a blessing. I hope to continue to be a blessing to them for however long the LORD wants me to be with them.

At the same time I was helping with Sam, I was able to help others catch the vision of what God wants to do in the nations through a class called Perspectives on the World Christian Movement. In the class, adult students learned the foundations of missions and the purpose for continuing to reach out to other people groups. They also gathered ideas for how to use their new knowledge in their daily lives, whether still in the States or abroad.

Towards the end of the summer, God opened an opportunity for me to use my talents at a law office downtown. I was super-busy learning about criminal defense law and the ins and outs of the judicial system. Through the position, the LORD was able to bring members of the nations to me and I was able to pray for them.

The other thing the LORD brought into my life this past year was to be a part of Toastmasters, an internationally recognized volunteer organization which seeks to provide a positive atmosphere for its members to grow in leadership and communication skills. I will have an opportunity in the coming year to increase my leadership skills through the Vice President Public Relations officer. Though the position frightens me just a little, I know it will give me a great opportunity to reach out with my talents and bless those around me—as well to practice the skills I will need for stepping into whatever community God eventually may place me in.

I am thankful to be back in Texas, but adventure still stirs my heart. I yearn to see more not just of the world, but of where the LORD will take me in the coming year and how He can use me to reach the nations. As we end 2012 and look forward to a hopeful future, I leave you with the words from Isaiah: “Enlarge the place of your tent... stretch out the curtains of your dwellings; do not spare.” Let us expand our vision for what the LORD has for us in the coming days and seek to be a blessing to those around us.

                                                                                               All My Love,

                                                                                                   Jennifer

His Cheeseburger

"You are his cheeseburger,

his precious cheeseburger.

He'll wait for you, yeah

he'll wait for you..."

--Veggie Tales, "His Cheeseburger"

Dubbed a "love song from Mr. Lunt," the main character in this silly refrain, which happens to be a plump butternut squash, arrives at a make-believe fast-food joint just in time for closing.  The squash politely asks the waitress for his favorite meal, a cheeseburger and milkshake.  Unable to fulfill the request due to the lateness of the hour, she asks for him to come back the next morning.  

Not to be undone, the squash is undaunted.  The song builds in momentum as it races to his proclaimation:  "He said, 'I am extremely hungry,' " it crescendoes, "but I guess I can wait until then!"  Funny imagery, it seems--having vegetables parading about as people, proclaiming their madness for cheeseburgers.  But it comes with a point:  Clearly this song from Veggie Tales is all about waiting.

You see, Butternut Squash had a need even before he pulled through the Drive-Thru at Burger Bell that night--a need that mirrors our own and that, one could argue, is humanity's most profound: desire.  We are insatiable, we humans.  We are the creators and inhalers of everything consumable; and yet the consumption of whatever it be--be it food, wine, entertainment, companionship--is never enough.  

This wild thirst is not without purpose, however.  It was God's design in the first place.  "Delight yourself in the LORD..." Psalm 37 boldly proclaims, "and He shall give you the desires of your heart."  In another place the Scripture reads, "You open Your hand and satisfy the desires of every living thing" (Ps. 145:16 NKJV).  This deep yearning was meant to be filled, though only by means of one thing:  God's timing.

Butternut Squash knew about the timing of God, which is why he was willing to wait--at least at first.  He decided to patiently count down the moments until 10 a.m. the next morning when he could indulge in his cheeseburger without fear of sanction.  And he al-most made it.  Sitting there in the drive-thru continuing to yearn for what he couldn't yet have, he spies a billboard for another restaurant.  Ah, breakfast!  A chance to fill his desire and still leave room for lunch.

Ultimately, he didn't wait.

And that's the question that I have to ask myself.  Am I willing to wait, even in the middle of my hunger?  Am I willing to watch my desires slowly drift away, knowing that somehow if I trust God they won't drift too far from His reach?  

I've made up my mind on this issue:  I won't go around His timing.  So I sit here tonight counting down the minutes until it's 10 a.m. and I can indulge in my cheeseburger without fear of sanction.

Corner Store

Just after 6 this evening, I walked myself down to what was once a Circle K near my parents' house for an out-of-stock recipe item.

As it sits just three houses and a vacant lot from us, the corner store was the source of many a thirst quencher and good wholesome fun growing up.  My brothers would stop in for some breakfast tacos on Saturday mornings, or ice cold sodas after a long bike ride around the neighborhood.  Dad would walk to it when he needed a break from his work outside.  Sometimes I would hike myself down there if I needed something last-minute.  We got to know the store really well--but more importantly, it got to know us.

This trip, I scanned the aging chest-high shelves for diced tomatoes, but found only a six-ounce can of tomato paste.  No other aisle in the tiny store carried food cans, I knew.  But paste wouldn't be good for Italian Sausage Soup.  Drat.

Across the open foyer, an older black man called out, "Hey, how's your mom?"  His skin was shiny and deeply lined, like an ebony walking stick that had been rubbed smooth from so much touch.  He wore a black cap and walked with a shuffling limp, a malady so mild it was hardly noticeable.  When he smiled, a gold cap hugged one of his top incisors.  

At first I brushed his question off with an oh-she's-fine, but as I milled about the store he kept talking.  "I'd see her in here nearly every day, but it's been a month since I seen her," he said.  "I come in on the weekends and I'd see her Friday, Saturday come in by herself and walk around the store a little bit."  He then went on to tell me about the first day he noticed her--shuffling from aisle to aisle, unsure of what to buy.  He thought she was just there looking for something special.

I stopped him, my arms full of fresh produce and bottled drinks.  "You do know what happened to her, right?"

"Oh, she come in one day, tol' me all about the accident, how she can't do some things.  I seen her comin' in one day with a man, could be your dad--"

I smiled.  No other man would have been with her, I was sure.  No other man had gotten close enough.  "Yep, that's my dad."

"I seen her with the man walkin' around a little bit, then she was gone.  I never knew where she went."

"She's all right," I assured him.  It was the standard spiel: some days good, some not, overall in good health.  "But she's not any better," I added.  I thought about asking him to pray for her, but I wasn't sure how he'd take the request.

"Oh, she come in--she talks to me good.  We talk about a lot of things," he said.  His face kept its animation as he talked, reflecting his genuine care.  Finally, after all these years, my mother mattered to someone outside our close circle of family and church friends.  "Tell her I been thinkin' about her."

"Just pray for her," I told him as I set my things on the counter to pay.  By now, we had talked enough that I knew I could take the risk.

"Yes ma'am."

"That's what the church of God is called to do--to pray."

"You tell her to come back," he said as I gathered my items to leave.  "If she comes down here, just know that I'll be lookin' out for her--and that comes from the heart."

Pushing my way out the heavy burglar-proof door and into the Texas heat, my thanksgiving spilled over into tears of joy.

Rain

"Oh, how great is Your goodness,

which You have laid up for those who fear You,

which You have prepared for those who trust in You,

in the presence of the sons of men!"

--Psalm 31:19

The plastic rain gauge on our soggy wooden porch reads just above 3.5 inches, its bottom covered in fuzzy brown algae. It hasn't been dumped out in two weeks or more, but there really hasn't been time for that. Before this week's rain, the San Antonio area got an unexpected 7.5 inches of rainfall for the first six weeks of 2012. Now, just after week seven, thirty-day totals for the Alamo City read 9.25 inches. Our little rain gauge has had its beaker full.

This is an unexpected boon, to say the least.

As I returned to San Antonio late last June, the city was in the middle of a severe drought which began the previous summer. Blazing wildfires and stage four water restrictions kept conditions life-threatening and left residents begging for relief. "The percentage of exceptional drought [in Texas] was the highest in the State" in ten years, records Wikipedia. Though averaging 33 inches of rainfall a year, this portion of the state would only see two inches for all of 2011 combined.

The 2012 Farmer's Almanac shows long-range forecasts that expect similar amounts to persist well into summer 2012. "Winter temperatures will be milder than normal, on average, with much-below-normal rainfall," it predicts. The publication goes on to suggest that the southern portions of Texas will continue to receive inadequate precipitation, "with drought a threat." And yet every day as I pull out of the driveway with my father's truck, the tires eat away at more and more soft sod because there's more moisture on the ground than the soil can absorb.

It's highly unusual, local weather forecasters claim. This year is a La Nina climate pattern, one in which oceanic temperatures are lower by as much as 10 degrees, causing conditions in Texas to be dry and warm this time of year. Even the almanac predictions take the La Nina phenomenon into account, assuming only 2.5 inches of rainfall for the months of February and March. That's 2.13 inches LESS than what February has already received.

For all this upset in climatology, I have only one person to blame: me.

Five weeks ago, in the middle of the first month of the year, my pastor issued a challenge to his congregation. He dared us to give this new year--with all of its problems and potentialities--over to the LORD. There would be four days of dedication, he said, to "commit our way" to Him, just as it commands in Psalm 37. The church would be open to come and pray on those nights. Having twelve months of uncertainty ahead of me, I went.

The morning of the first day, Sunday, January 15, our pastor directed us to Psalm 31:19. In the verse, King David describes what good things the righteous have coming to them: a measure of the LORD's favor that has been set aside for some future time. "There is a moment when the stored up blessings will be poured out," the pastor explained. "[So m]aybe it's gonna rain on you... And maybe it's gonna be soon. Maybe this [year] will be the end of barrenness or drought."

His statement rings oddly prophetic in my life, the full effects of which I know have yet to be realized. Just since September, I've felt sprinkles of God's blessings. Though nothing enough to satiate the need, I consider them a sort of first fruits of what is surely to come. More recently I've felt the showers getting stronger. As I watch the rain clouds of favor gathering on the horizon, my heart swells with overwhelming thankfulness.

"On the eve of 2012," I wrote in my prayer journal on December 30, "there are so many questions--so many hopes, so many fulfillments of dreams--and I don't have answers for any of them. Help me to trust You, Lord, and step out in faith in this new year."

Adjustment

An array of books--read, reread, unread--stand erect between the metal bookends that were never sold in the garage sale. Larger books rest wearily against a wooden slat two perches below their peers. The tall shelf that some in the tiny library occupy again speaks of its age through chips in its whitewash, yet another relic from the fundraiser. The air around the structure smells faintly of must and cat urine.

Diagonal to the scene, a pair of bunk beds guard the entrance, compelling evidence of the room's previous tenants. Their sleepers have long since grown into men and left discarded childhood debris behind. Crinkly plastic covers one bed's tucked-in sheets in order to ward off the room's malady, its clammy four-legged visitors. A purple blanket drapes the lower bunk, two-year-old wrinkles disfiguring the color's elegance. This is proof of a different kind: A new inhabitant.

In the middle of the room yawn two crushed boxes, the words oocheguk taekbae printed in bold letters at the bottom--"post office delivery." They, too, smell of time's unceasing march. The corner of one box is split wide open, revealing the shiny silvery edge of a Bible's crisp pages. The other's contents are nearly spoiled by a cat's indiscriminate choice of litter box. For almost five months, the two receptacles have been waiting for this very day: to finally be unpacked.

After half a year of crying out to God, I have a place. It's just like waiting to grow up when you're kids, sharing rooms until one of you is old enough to venture out. I shared one with my twin until we were about three, and then he did the same with his brother for ten more years. The only difference now is this room isn't really mine.

It all started 20 years ago, Mom and Dad with their small children in tow scouting out a space to call home that was larger than their eight-foot-wide trailer. After rejecting an overgrown plot of land and deciding that a five-acre ranch would be "too rich for our blood," we were introduced to a modest three-bedroom house near the corner of Ackerman and Binz-Engleman Road. With its columned porch, hardwood floors, and pier-and-beam foundation, we knew it was our little country cottage in the city.

A Mrs. Cathy Pricer greeted us at the second front door when we came to view the home; the first front door had long since been reserved as another entrance to the master bedroom. After having been added onto twice, the house now resembled an "L" shape, tipped to its right side. Proudly, Mrs. Pricer guided us through the elongated living room towards the large kitchen to our right. She clipped the corner expertly and headed to the dwarfed hallway further onward, with its two doors on either side.

The last two doors from the hall, our guide informed us, would be the children's rooms. Just glancing at the portal to the right, I quickly headed towards the one on the left. A boy occupied it, his dark posters glaring at me from the wood-paneled walls. I didn't care; I was enthralled. It was just my size, I knew--about half of the other room. Small, yes, but quaint. This room would be mine.

Over the course of these last two decades, the room to the right has changed hands several times: It was first the boys' room, then just Chris', then just Jason's when he forcefully kicked his brother out. It was no one's room the year Jason was off in China; then, hard on his luck, it was Chris' when he moved back from the Midwest. My room, on the contrary, has always been mine--that is, until moving out of it three years ago.

Growing up, Dad was always eyeing the room on the left for its peaceful solitude and quietness. One of the two back rooms would be his office, he had informed us. It just remained to be seen which one of the siblings would leave first. As the boys' door would prove to be constantly turning, mine seemed the perfect candidate the week that I packed my things. Within months, the purple paint job I had earnestly awaited almost ten years was all but nonexistent as Dad's warm yellow hue gently glided over it. No matter if I wished it so, from then on I knew my room would never again be mine.

The September before I moved to Korea, the boys' room was no one's again, as Chris headed off to the road to become a truck driver. Then it became Dad and Mom's spare room, with a place for gift-wrapping and extra storage--until, hard on his luck, Jason came back six months ago. Informed of this change in situation, it was my desire to move back to Texas with a job and apartment lined up and ready to go. Nothing within me wanted to ask Dad to give up his office, or fight for my right to be in the middle of my brothers' revolving door.

Such was not the plan, however. After nearly five months of searching and countless hours of borrowing cars and fetching rides on the bus, I have yet to find a stable, well-paying place of employment--what I like to call, a "grown-up job." Though I can praise God for the part time work I have been able to find, it's not enough to make end's meet. And certainly not enough to earn that apartment I was looking forward to.

Jason's situation has recently become such that he no longer needs use of the room at Dad's house, and the two of us have come to an agreement of sorts: if I pack up his stuff, I can have his room. Good friends of mine tell me this should only last about six months, long enough for me to save the money needed to get back on my feet. Despite their good intentions, I can't help but feel as though I'm back in high school, just waiting for the chance to venture out.

So here I am again, sharing.

Professional Couch-Surfing

"The wind blows where it wishes, and you hear the sound of it, but cannot tell where it comes from and where it goes. So is everyone born of the Spirit." --John 3:8

I wouldn't call myself homeless, per se. Every night I sleep happily underneath strong, protective roofing built by someone else many years ago. I stay on my father's couch, or my grandmother's bed. On a fold-out futon in a friend's living room, or in another friend's guest room. Sometimes I stay in someone's teenage daughter's upstairs loft. I guess you could say what I really am is room-less.

"I'm sort of a professional couch-surfer," I told my friend Mario via online chat a couple of weeks ago.

"Hey, do you mean on couchsurfing.net, or the non-internet, real-life version?"

"The non-internet, real-life version."

"It kind of works like this," I went on. "I live with my grandmother... only until I don't. If I have to go into town, I catch the bus early that morning and stay all day, sometimes not coming back until the following day."

Mario was incredulous. "Do you just not want to be at your grandmother's house? Do you dislike it there?"

"No, no," I reassured my friend. "I am involved in Toastmasters [International] in town and cannot get there if I don't take the bus early in the morning. It's supposed to work where I'm only in town Tuesday and Wednesday and am with my grandmother the rest of the time. But if there's a special occasion like Labor Day, I don't mind going out to celebrate it."

Before leaving Korea, I had the chance to experience couch-surfing for the first time--and I felt God move through it in a whole new way. Just after finding out that I had two weeks left at my job, and subsequently in my apartment, I debated about whether I should pay to stay in the apartment for one extra week. I knew the hagwon was closing at the end of May and as I prayed through my dilemma, I felt the Spirit say, "Move out May 31."

Plans were already formulating for me to join Holly Schoephoerster in Southeast Asia sometime in June, but if I left at the end of May, that meant there would be a critical time gap between vacating my apartment and traveling. Where was I to go until then? From out of the woodwork, God started bringing girlfriend after girlfriend who offered me not just support for what I was going through, but places for me to stay.

December, who worked close to my school in Dongtan, was the first to step up. Though it was only twice the size of my Korean apartment (i.e., less than 500 total square feet), she said I could crash at her place anytime I needed. She even offered to hold part of my luggage while I was away in Thailand.

My Korean friend Young Sook, who lived less than a mile from December, wanted me to bring my stuff over to her place simply because she had one whole extra room (including a bed) more than my American friend. "Your luggage-y, big and December apartment small," she said matter-of-factly. At one point, she too offered her apartment as somewhere for me to be.

"Jenny-pah," she said as she gazed intently at me, "stay. In Korea, you stay."

"I can't stay," I told her. At that moment, visions of my family and their need for comfort raced through my head. I knew couldn't.

At the same time, my Korean co-worker Grace Teacher also offered her place. "I would love you to come stay with me," she told me over the phone. "With my mom."

I was astounded by all of the people who wanted to come to my rescue and I knew that they offered themselves through the prompting of God. I never felt so loved or cared for than during those moments. In the end, more because of convenience than anything else, I chose to room with December.

But I wasn't the only one who started a couch-surfing career at that time: So did Frankie. Though my friends wanted me to stay with them, they weren't too eager to also entertain my cat. December was highly allergic, Young Sook deathly afraid, and Grace didn't think her mother would very much approve. So what was Frankie to do without me?

"I'm taking your cat," a new friend of mine, Kealy, asserted the first day I met her. We were out at Hangang Park celebrating Holly's last Sunday in Seoul with swan paddle boat races on the Han; I had just told her about my need to vacate my apartment building in less than two weeks. Though I had had one other offer to take Frankie already, it was still unconfirmed because the girl needed to check with her school first. "I'm taking her cat," Kealy repeated, telling everyone within earshot.

And so it was settled. Just as my mobile life had begun.

"It's fun, but it's not a good way to settle down," I confessed to Mario that day online.

"Getting tired of the couches?" he asked.

"I've been doing it so long it's kind of the new norm I guess. I just want to take control of my own something."

"That's a real shift from having your own everything in Korea, eh?"

A sobering thought, Mario. In my need for control, I have to stop and ask one question: If the LORD provided for me then, in the midst of a foreign people speaking a foreign tongue in a foreign land, why must I doubt that He can provide for me now?

I've certainly seen a lot of Texas towns while under someone else's roof: Somerset, Kirby, Converse, Schertz, Temple, Killeen. I've visited or reconnected with no less than five local congregations. I've also had a chance to spend copious amounts of time with dear friends and family in this new season. Being room-less isn't all bad.

Confessions of a Used Car Salesman

*Originally performed live August 30, 2011 in Universal City, Texas*

The Toastmasters Area Contest was held earlier today on the north side of San Antonio. In honor of the Christian speech club that I have recently joined, and such an auspicious occasion, here is a look at the original speech I entered this year. Sadly, it was not eligible to go on to larger, more prestigious contests--no thanks to my forgetfulness or its length.

Ladies and Gentlemen, I give you "Confessions of a Used Car Salesman." Laugh at your own risk. Please note, any and all flirtation recorded in the preceding may or may not actually have been true.

***

HHHHow many of you ever want your daughter to grow up and declare, “Oh, dad, I really want to be a professional hustler!” Standing before you, ladies and gentlemen, is a woman who—on her honor—almost became one.

Like a lot of people in this country, I’ve been out of work for two months now. Last week, my uncle called up to tell me about a job fair the following morning. He had heard about it all on the news. He said the news anchor suggested candidates “dress for success”—which meant smoothing out your best dress suit, straightening your wild locks, and sharpening your Stilettos. The next day, there I was in my dad’s immaculate Mustang convertible headed out to take someone for a ride.

After registering my name and email address with the vultures in the foyer, I was handed a 37-page pamphlet and ushered in to the coliseum. Just like Daniel in the Lions’ Den. The leaflet was crammed with too many useful bits of information to be helpful, so I stuck to reading the map. My first booth, a trade school.

“I wouldn’t work in this industry,” the young man confessed as I stood there with my arms full of resumes. “It’s really more of a business.”

Oh really? I’ll trade you professional job-seeking, and throw in broke, for a chalkboard. “Do you have any room for English teachers?”

“We don’t teach English, no.”

I was beginning to wonder if they used it in the classroom at all. “Can I give you my resume anyway?”

“Sure.” He looked down at the first location on the page. “You worked in Korea?”

“Yes, I did.”

“How was it?” he asked eagerly. “I’ve been thinking about doing that myself.”

“It’s worth it. You should totally go.” There I was, putting myself out of a job—in another country no less!

I scoured booth after booth looking for a warm body to pawn off my 8-and-a-half-by-eleven “I Love Me” stationery. And each time it was the same response: “Oh, we’re not taking resumes. Apply online.” The only reason that first guy took it was to get my number.

Moving along, I quietly passed a power company. “I’m sorry, ma’am,” I was told as I skirted the booth, “we don’t have openings for secretaries or office work.”

I stopped dead in my tracks. Shouldn’t there be an equal opportunity here? Or is this industry just rigged? Success for them must have meant a well-proven track record of grit under the fingernails.

Before I rounded the bend in the event hall, I came across an opportunity to be a corrections officer for the GEO group. Translation: professional jailor. I could teach a class on how to win friends and influence prison wardens.

Finally, I had reached an oasis amid the throng, a booth nicely decorated and peopled about with gleaming upper management. They still wouldn’t take my resume, but at least I was qualified for the job. The position? Professional complaint consultant at a local call center. I would be up all night with the screams of protest ringing in my ears. I could have made a career out of this growing up for all the times my twin brother rained on my parade… Wait, maybe I could still cash in! …

Further down the line of headhunters was posted a sign for a mattress company. Expert salesmen needed, it read. Conscientious need not apply. Now, I wasn’t one to swindle anyone out of a good night’s sleep, but what I saw next to the booth was my golden opportunity.

Just opposite the mattress guys stood a flashy display that caught my eye—either that or it was the skinny guy next to it making googley eyes at me. “Drive Time” read the bold, green letters across the top of his nametag. At least as a used car salesman I’d look the part.

I only hesitated a moment before offering my hand. “Jennifer.”

“Ryan,” he said as he slipped his fingers over mine. It was official—we were now engaged… in conversation.

As any betrothed couple does, we chatted about the most important things—the weather, Korea, my job history. But, alas, we had come down to business. “Well, Jennifer, if you can communicate like you’re doing now, you can sell a car.”

What?! That’s almost like saying, “If you have a pulse and breathe air, you’re hired.”

“But I can’t sell a thing!” I sputtered at him like a beat-up station wagon.

“Let me take your resume and have you talk to my supervisor.” I knew it—he just wanted me for the Stilettos!

I was ushered past other potential tricksters right up to the man himself. “Dominic,” he stuck out his hand. “So what has my colleague told you about Drive Time?”

“That you’re… looking to expand your network,” I told him sheepishly.

“Good. We’ll set something up this week.”

There I stood, writhing like shark bait. I, too, would be asked to lay down my chalk to become… a used car salesman.

The next day as I sat relaxing peacefully at a friend’s house, the dreaded phone call rang three different times. These guys are nothing if not persistent—that, or someone on the other end is desperate.

They must have decided on a different approach because I soon began receiving made-to-order email spam. “I called the number on your resume and left a message,” read one of the notes, “but I thought an email might be ignored just as well.”

After three days of email tag, my inattentiveness had worn them out. They must have seen through the façade of hair and makeup—and the Stilettos—to where my real interests lie: in waiting out pesky used car salesmen. “I’m sorry, Ms. Lowery,” the note read sweetly, “but we’re looking for someone who… will answer our emails.”

I knew I wasn’t cut out to be a professional swindler! “After many attempts to contact me and subsequent follow-ups,” I wrote to my dad, “the good folks at Drive Time have asserted that they… just can’t keep up with my laziness.”

So I didn't become a car salesman. Maybe it's because I didn't live up to my potential--but really, who wants to be involved in legalized what collar crime? Rest assured, ladies and gentlemen, that your pocketbooks are safe with me.

P. O. A.

“And I heard another voice from heaven saying, ‘Come out of her, My people, lest you share in her sins and lest you receive her plagues.’ ” Rev. 18:4

“I have a question for you,” he suggested nonchalantly as we steadily hiked up the rocky pathway towards the summit of Woraksan. “What do Christians think about dating non-Christians?”

My heart pounded below my blouse. “I”—gasp—“would”—gasp—“love”—gasp—“to answer that question, Ben,” I told him as my chest rose and fell like a tidal wave. “When I’m not heaving!”

“Okay,” he shrugged as I dutifully trudged on beside him.

It was a beautifully brisk afternoon that May in Korea. After winter had grasped the peninsula in its frigid grip for the previous six months, it felt good to get out into the fresh air and stretch our legs. Ten or so yards below us, our friend Dan was trailing behind without fighting to keep up. I was only so close because of the company.

As Ben and I approached a clearing mere meters from the top of the mountain, I quickly began to realize I wouldn’t be good for the final push up the trail. Not having been on a vigorous hike since our last walk four months prior, I was a worn-out rag doll. I also discovered that 70 degrees was a temperature still too cold for my asthmatic lungs to be sucking in so rapidly. When Dan arrived, I advised the still-energetic Ben that he should probably go ahead without us.

“Be back in forty-five,” Ben breathed as his boot struck the dirt. While we waited for his swift return, Dan and I settled in on the concrete ledge in the middle of the clearing, and thoughts quickly turned to our absent friend.

Dan, a professed believer in Christ, had been watching Ben’s and my interaction the last three months, privy to confessions on both sides of the aspiring relationship. He knew that Ben and I had walked through serious heartache together when a friend of ours had jumped ship early in March. He also knew that we had become each other’s best friends since that time. “The feelings are there,” he affirmed. “All you gotta do is light the match.”

He knew what the Scripture said about not being yoked together with an unbeliever (ref. II Cor. 6:14), and, aware of Ben’s lack of faith in Christ, began persuading me to look elsewhere for romance. In addition to his spiritual reasons, Dan also gave other sound advice as to why Ben wouldn’t be the best choice. “He’s leaving in three months—” he began.

“I’ve thought about that, too,” I cut him off.

“Jennifer! The match has been lit!”

I looked down at my feet as his admonition hit its mark. Even then, I knew something had to be done about whatever it was pumping so loudly in my chest. I quietly took up the rear as we descended the mountain, conviction weighing down my limbs more heavily than my fatigue.

It wasn’t until the three of us waited for the bus back to Chungju that night that I realized the totality of Ben’s numbness to Christianity. He’s clueless, I thought as Dan and I tried to share the gospel with him. Nothing we said seemed to penetrate his blank stare.

“It’s okay to have feelings for him,” Dan later told me at Starbucks. “It’s just not okay to act on them. You need a P. O. A.—a plan of action.” He sat back a moment and then looked pointedly at me. “You can’t come to Chungju.”

Since I had moved into my new place the previous March, I had been to see Ben several times. Once, he came up to help me move my things into the new apartment. Another time, we had met in Seoul for a Costco run. Just prior to the hiking trip, I had come to see him for a national holiday and found myself stuck two hours away from home—overnight. Even if I weren’t in Chungju, I knew the struck match could still light a fire.

Facebook had become the sole means of communication for Ben and me—a quick email here, a short post on his wall there. We had even begun to chat together if the two of us were ever online at the same time. If I were to limit what I “Facebooked” him, perhaps I could put out the blaze before it started. No more random posts on his wall, I resolved; and if I emailed him, I couldn’t say anything that I wouldn’t want others to read. “Jennifer Lowery,” read my status update a week later—“has her POA.”

***

Fast-forward a year and three months to August ’11, a year since Ben left the ROK and nearly four months since I’ve been back myself: I hardly think about him anymore. With Ben no longer in my physical world, my POA is all but a non-entity. I wrote him, though, just to see what he was up to.

“I’m back in Korea,” he answered jovially, “with a job that I’m blessed to have. I’m here in Jeju [Korea’s prized tropical island paradise] and have been back for two weeks now.”

While in Korea, I hadn’t given Jeju a serious thought—but now, it looked so appealing. With my new passport in hand, all I would need to get there was to get my federal background check back from the FBI. Maybe my next job would be on a sub-tropical island only a short flight from Seoul. Then again, maybe there would be another tsunami.

Recently I noticed another of my friends from the ROK online at the same time as I, so I messaged him. “Maddock!” I had met him the September before, just days before he left the peninsula for Argentina. As I chatted with him, I typed in Spanish to help his language acquisition in his newly adopted country.

“Estoy tan impresionada con tu espanol, mi amigo,” I wrote him. I’m very impressed with your Spanish.

“Y tu tambien,” he volleyed back. And you as well. “Despues de once meses, necesito saber ALGO!” After eleven months, I need to know SOMETHING!

We must have talked in our respective second language for a half an hour or more. I secretly relished the idea that I could turn off my English for so long—and that he was so impressed with my abilities. “Anyway, Maddock, it was great to catch up and chat in Spanish,” I told my friend at the end of our talk.

“Most definitely,” he replied. “Glad to talk to you… Wish I’d met you earlier when we were both in Korea.”

***

In an online Bible study that some friends of mine and I do together, we’ve been studying the prophecies and parables in Revelation. So far, we’ve made it to Revelation 18, the fall of a harlot named Babylon. “All nations have drunk the wine of the wrath of her fornication,” reads verse 3 (NKJV). Another version calls it the “maddening wine of her adulteries.”

In an effort to allow us to understand these things spiritually, our discipler had us understand them physically first. “What do prostitutes do?” she asked us. “Simply put, they receive seed from many different sources.”

Earlier she had argued that this “seed” represents words. We know from the parable of the sower, for example, that the “good seed” sent out into the field is the Word of God (ref. Luke 8:11). This harlot, Babylon, didn’t receive the good seed—and in fact, has mingled it with the seed—words—she has received from others. The “maddening wine of her adulteries,” suggests my teacher, is her mixed words.

Last week, I began thinking about this harlot in terms of my own fallenness, emotionally if not physically or spiritually. When have I received seed from many different sources? Whom have I prostrated myself in front of? Harlots make themselves beautiful and attractive to their lovers—so when have I played the harlot?

My POA really need not have anything to do with Ben anymore. And it has nothing to do with Facebook, either. Rather, it’s about the heart of my own prostitution. I prostrate myself if I make myself attractive to different men through my words—and if I accept their words about me.

My plan of action doesn’t simply mean not writing something I don’t want others to read; rather, it means refraining from saying something that makes me feel good or attractive to multiple men. If it nets me intentional masculine attention, whatever seemingly innocuous action it might be is wrong.

“I saw what you wrote on Ben’s wall,” Dan told me that day I was with him in Starbucks. “And I thought to myself—what is this girl thinking?! [With your post] you’re saying, ‘Oh, I’m thinking about you. I care about you.’ That’s gonna drive him crazy!”

Men love innocence—they’re drawn to it. And I can’t be so innocent as to think my innocence can do no harm.

Labor Day

Mary-Ellen helming the turn-of-the-century steam locomotive

located just outside Temple's railway station.

A couple of weeks ago, a dear, sweet friend from college, Mary-Ellen Tolliver, had asked me if I would come up to see her sometime in Killeen, Texas, a three-and-a-half hour ride from my hometown. Her original plan was for me to come up during the week, spend time with her after school, and then the both of us head back toward Seguin and San Antonio for the weekend. As it worked out better that I could come up to see her for Labor Day weekend, off I went.

Having not yet found gainful employment, nor subsequently a reliable means of transportation, there I was the Saturday morning before Labor Day in line for the 7AM train. I had thought about a bus ride, but the train sounded so much more exotic and adventurous. During the weekend, Mary-Ellen affirmed that, indeed, it was most appropriate for me to have made use of this particular mode of passage on such an auspicious occasion: the anniversary of the railway workers' strike that provoked the inception of Labor Day itself.

In May of 1894, in what would come to be known as the Pullman Strike, railway workers across the nation boycotted the service of Pullman rail cars. In sum, the strike cost the rail industry at least $80,000 in damages--which is more than $8 million by today's standards. The incident was bad enough to call in US Marshals to control the mobs and prevent further defacing of public property. Legislation quickly passed through Congress as a way to pacify the angry workers, and thus Labor Day was born.

The Saturday of my trip, I woke up at 5:15, left my house on foot by 5:49, and caught the 6:03 bus into downtown, just so I would be at the Amtrak station the advised thirty minutes before my scheduled departure time. As I approached the depot, all things stood at the ready. Workers puttered in golf carts around a train parked on the tracks to my left, to check for what I thought were last-minute adjustments. The further I followed the train, however, I realized that the growing crowd in front of the little station belied my calm assessment of the matter.

"The 7AM train to Chicago is still going to leave on time?" I heard the guy in front of me ask the solitary clerk behind the checked-baggage desk. Skirting eye contact, the clerk reassured all within earshot that indeed it would. At 6:40, the still train sitting outside was supposed to have left one hour and ten minutes prior to the inquiry. Apparently whatever grim circumstance rendering the present locomotive motionless wouldn't have anything to do with my own train.

Or so I thought.

After purchasing my reserved ticket, I crowded outside the small station with the other anxious passengers to await our promised ride. Without a timepiece I couldn't tell just how long we stood together with our eyes fixed on the immovable locomotive. Just as the predawn light began to baptize the gathered vigil, a second train pulled onto the pair of tracks closest to the crowd and the masses climbed aboard.

No sooner had we settled in for the ride when the wheels started turning--backwards. We must have headed in the opposite direction ten minutes or more! I was beginning to think that the quickest way to head north was south, until we began inching back the way we came. As we passed San Antonio's east-side graffiti so slow that we could read it, we asked the steward why the hold-up.

"Our trains run on Union Pacific railroad," he said. "It's because of all the freight trains in front of us." Hmm. A forty-year-old rail line that doesn't even own its own tracks? Isn't that like being thirty-five and still living at your parents' house?

This curtsy to his big brother UP cost Amtrak an initial hour and a half off the starting block, as well as untold hours of other delays throughout the trip. Regardless of the setbacks, however, I was thankful for the opportunity to ride a passenger train in the US for the first time. "Thank You for allowing me this trip," I wrote to the LORD in my prayer journal that morning. "I know You didn't have to, but You knew it was something I would like."

To my adventurous spirit, it was a chance of a lifetime--an experience I was determined to taste to the fullest. I leaned back in my extra-roomy captain's chair on row 205 and noted the soft light of dawn filtering through the window shades, determined to enjoy the ride. It was only after the sun came up full and strong that I discovered the observation deck one car in front, with its shade-less, floor-to-ceiling window panes that allowed for optimally viewing the gently passing countryside. It was here that I spent nearly half of the remainder of my trip.

A surprise awaited me in this new rail car. "Here in our Observation Deck," announced a woman over the intercom, "we have a special guided tour, part of the Trails and Rails program put on by our partners, Texas Parks and Wildlife. They will be sharing stories and details about the scenery around you through to Fort Worth."

Unfinished book in hand, I suddenly lost interest in the printed page and strained my ears toward the commentator's stories. She regaled us with moments of epic heroism by the Alamo freedom fighters, educated us about unique tidbits of old San Marcos structures, and reminded us about the beauty of the natural parks surrounding us. Her oral history of Texas was all very interesting, almost like listening to Homer or another ancient harold. I was only sorry that I couldn't listen to the park ranger all the way up to Fort Worth.

There was another thing I strained to hear on the trip: the announcement that the dining car was open for business. Instructed not to pass through or even to approach the car unless it was time, I had patiently awaited the lunch hour throughout the morning. As the come-and-get-it call rang out, I grabbed my wallet from my window seat and headed forward.

In front of me inside the dining car was a woman about my age; behind me, a mother and her daughter. Anticipating that the already-cramped space would soon fill up, the server asked the woman and myself, unknown to each other, to sit together. Moments later, the mother-and-daughter team were asked to sit adjacent to us.

The server approached them as they took their seats in the booth opposite ours. "When I asked you to sit across from them," he instructed sternly, "I wanted you to sit across the table." Slightly embarrassed, the two women scooted over a few yards to face us. It's not every day you get to eat lunch with strangers.

By this time nearly 12:15, more than forty-five minutes past the time we were originally scheduled to arrive at my destination city. Noting how quickly the car was filling up with guests, and how slowly our strained waiter was at getting back to us, I was fairly certain my opportunity to try an on-board meal was pulling out of the station without me.

Just as I was deciding between a club sandwich and soup, the announcement came to confirm my thoughts. "Good afternoon, ladies and gentlemen," the conductor called. "We will be arriving to Temple within five minutes." This time, the train would be on time.

I quickly left my new friends at the table and made my way back towards row 205 and the rest of my things. As the locomotive rolled to a complete stop, I jumped off and landed in the rail yard in front of expectant new passengers. I approached the immense turn-of-the-century station to look for any sign that would inform my friend of my late arrival.

"Jennifer!" I heard to my right as Mary-Ellen bounded toward me. Apologizing for the unexpected delays, I quickly loaded my bags in her trunk and off we went in search of adventure.

The following Monday, Labor Day, the two of us headed back to the depot to await the train that would ferry me home, scheduled to arrive at 4:45. As I approached the old-timey counter to pay for my new reservation, events from the weekend slowly began to repeat themselves.

"It looks like the train won't be pulling in until 6 or 6:30," the clerk relayed sadly. "I was hoping I could go home on time tonight."

"Does this happen often?"

The clerk smiled wryly. "It happens more often, yes. It was on-time Friday." A one-in-four chance of matching the posted schedule. It was like guaranteeing your professor you'd miss a quarter of his lectures: a one-way ticket to a failing grade.

While we sat there, the ETA of the Texas Eagle grew to a whopping three and a half hours past its timetable. It was slowly looking like I wasn't going to be able to catch it for my return trip after all. "That's why people don't take the train!" I heard my dad say as I informed him of the news. At least Mary-Ellen had offered her place for me to stay until she could drive me back home.

Browsing through the bargains of Borders' closing doors, I came across a book that might help me make sense of my recent misadventure. It was called Waiting on a Train: The Embattled Future of Passenger Rail Service. The author, James McCommons, spent a year of his life on Amtrak time, riding the rail from Los Angeles all the way to the Eastern Seaboard. And his research question has a strong implication for where not just Amtrak, but the greatest nation on Earth, is really headed.

"Why has the world's greatest railroad nation turned its back on the form of transportation that made modern life and mobility possible?" he asks. And what can be done to renew its strength?

Settling Down

The day was a warm Sunday in the middle of July. The location, Bill Black's adult Sunday school class at my grandmother's church, Somerset First Baptist. I gulped as I read the title of the lesson for the day: "Settle Down." It had been just over a month since I had come back to Texas from Korea, and this was a subject I had not yet mastered.

We had been talking about Jeremiah for some time in the Sunday school class, and now we had reached one of my favorite passages from the book, chapter 29. It was a letter to the captives of the Children of Israel from the Great I AM. The prophet had been trying to tell the Israelites that what they had been told about their captivity was a lie. Other prophets in Israel had told the people they would only be in Babylon two years, but Jeremiah was adamant that captivity would surely be 70.

"Jeremiah represents either a terrorist or a terrorist-sympathizer," our teacher commented. "These people rejected anything that he said because they thought they knew God and that He dwelt with them."

The Children of Israel truly thought they were in God's will as they prepared to live only briefly in a land not their own; yet God had a different plan for them. "Build houses [in Babylon] and dwell in them," He wrote through Jeremiah. "[P]lant gardens and eat their fruit... [B]e increase there and not diminished (29:5-6)." The LORD surely did assent to restore them to the Promised Land, but they first needed to settle into life as foreigners.

In the Israelites' obedience lay God's purpose: Only after going through captivity would they come to know God in a personal and fulfilling way. "For I know the thoughts I think toward you," reads verse 11, "thoughts of peace and not of evil, to give you a future and a hope. Then you will call upon Me and pray to Me and I will listen to you. You will seek Me and find Me when you search for Me with all your heart" (Jer 29:12-13). The captivity was designed not to alienate them from God, but to draw their hearts ever closer to Him.

"Do not let your prophets and your diviners who are in your midst deceive you," the LORD continues (Jer. 29:8). "Nor listen to your dreams which you cause to be dreamed... [for] I have not sent them, says the LORD." The Children of Israel had believed a false report about how long they would be in captivity, and now they needed to trust God in His timing to bring them out of it.

As I sat pondering my own unwillingness to trust God, the morning's commentary seemed to pinpoint my secret thoughts: "What unrealistic dreams have you been holding on to?" the margin screamed.

I gulped again. For the last month, I had done just as the Children of Israel had been instructed not to: I had believed the "dreams which you cause to be dreamed." I had listened to the desire to be overseas and because of this had become so disenchanted with living in the States that I refused to buy things like a cell phone, a car, and even an apartment. The conviction stung worse than a mesquite switch to the back of the thighs.

The Israelites' journey was beginning to mirror my own. "Seek the peace of the city where I have caused you to be carried away captive," the LORD declared to His people, just as I knew He was speaking to me at that moment. Perhaps being back home would be longer than I had originally thought. My responsibility would now need be to build and not tear down, and pray for the success of the city I am in, "for in its peace, you will have peace" (Jer 29:7).

"In the middle of the summer, I heard an amazing Bible study about settling down," I chatted to a friend a couple of weeks ago via Skype. "I haven't forgotten it."

"What did [the study] define 'settling down' as?" she asked.

"Learning to live in the place God has for you now, even if it's not the place of promise," I wrote. As I typed my response, I knew that confessing it, just as sure as walking it out, would be a leap of faith.

Praying for my Enemies

“Ah, Jenny-pah,” I heard as the recognizable outline of my hagwon’s director came toward me. His long-sleeve Oxford shirt opened wide its arms as his gait stretched to fill the distance between us, each an obvious gesture of relief.

It was nearly 11:30 PM on my last night in Korea and I had been waiting for almost an hour. I rested on the black granite sill of Ramada Hotel’s business sign, the end of Maya Angelou’s childhood saga in my hand. Minutes before, along with a few other stragglers clinging to the coffee shop patio next door, I had been asked to find another place to loiter—so there I was in the cool night air, lingering. And I still had to pack.

“There’s been a misunderstanding between us,” my director assured nervously, his smile full of wavering resolve. “I thought you called to my wife and she told you.”

“No, I gave away my phone today,” I replied. “My friend has it. I’m sorry I didn’t tell you.”

By now my director’s hip rested on the same sill, half a meter from mine. From this perch he flopped, haphazardly but confidently, chirping the news. “I went to the tax office today,” he informed me brightly. “You will get your money within one week. Seven business days—so maybe next Tuesday.”

This from the man who quoted the fifteenth of June as my payday, only to have to back out of that promise days past due. This was the same man who stole from my check to pay his debts, and the man who thought it more convenient to lie to the government than be up-front about his business. The injustice of his actions was piling up in front of him. Having nursed a nagging sense of uneasy nausea all weekend, my stomach was still churning at his words.

“Don’t worry about the others,” he was saying now, referencing my co-workers. “You will get paid. You worked the best out of all of them.”

He already hadn’t paid an entire year’s worth of pension money, nor was he prepared to give me the foreigner’s severance package stipulated by Korean law. One poor fiscal choice after another had led to this—a closed school and teachers left to find work across the Pacific. But not only did the school have to suffer; now so did his family. What suddenly made his word his bond now?

Nothing in my heart wanted to ask a just and jealous God to bless the work of a man who would be so irresponsible. I bit my tongue as I said what came next. “Before we go, Mr. Chung, can I pray for you?”

He laughed off the question self-consciously, then consented. “You Christian? Cath-oh-lick? My wife,” he nodded proudly. “She Christian.” He gave me his hand as I bowed my head respectfully.

“Lord Jesus, we lift up Mr. Chung and his family,” I began. “We know that they are going through difficult circumstances—” Circumstances they brought on themselves, I wanted to scream— “but we ask that you would strengthen them. If they have to walk through these consequences, then give them endurance.”

As I prayed, I thought of those that had been caught in sin in the presence of Jesus: Instead of pounding them with religion, He kept showing mercy. I remembered His words to the adulterous woman. “Lord, Your Word says that You told people to go and sin no more.”

I didn’t want forgiveness—I wanted justice. I wanted him to deeply understand his crimes. You have an obligation to be righteous, I wanted to tell him. I wanted to bully him into doing right.

“And, Lord,” my mouth framed, nearly against my own will, “I ask that Mr. Chung would sin no more.”

I felt a little dubious as I finished, somewhat dishonest with my own intentions. My heart betrayed my own thoughts, even as my words had relayed the opposite. I certainly wasn’t worthy of any thanks offered to me.

As I crept up to December’s apartment one last time to finish preparations for the morning, I again cried out to God—this time, for myself. “Lord, I need Your heart for these,” I confessed. “Not my own.” I still harbored feelings of condemnation towards him, but what I needed most was a sense of the Lord’s divine mercy holding back the tide of just deserts.

Only the One without spot or blemish would be so worthy as to cast stones of judgment. If Mr. Chung had been culpable in anything, I was non the less. And yet He says to the guilty, “Then neither do I condemn you. So go, and sin no more.”

Hesitation

The air quietly breathes its freshness into the room as I sit as a guest of my friend December's on a newly-made Moroccan rug. Ruthie, the small house dog, grunts and growls at me from her high place atop the bed where her owner is resting. December's phone tells me it's finally morning: June 21, 2011, by its end the longest Tuesday I'll have ever had. Homecoming Day.

In less than six hours I will be boarding a plane bound for Texas with my one-way ticket in hand, unsure of when the next flight will ferry me back to Asia. Yet, my suitcases remain glued to the floor as if they were impenetrable rock. In less than two years this part of the world, largely unknown to vast populations of the US, has burrowed itself deep in the ressesses of my heart in ways that I never expected, and I quite hesitate to say goodbye.

Here are a select few of those ways:

*I chanced to meet a woman at a thrift store who, despite obvious language barriers, became one of the dearest and closest friends of mine and accepted me with such deep, unconditional love.

*I've been encouraged and strengthened by the ex-pat Christian community through the ministries of Seoul International Baptist Church and its members.

*Through three schools located in two countries, I had the privelege of reaching out and ministering to four major ethnic groups within Asia: Russian, Indian, Thai, and Korean.

*I tried my hand--er, lips--at speaking in four previously foreign languages and successfully carried a tune in two of them.

*I witnessed North Korea's picturesque mountainy landscape and was able to meet a young man who has actually vacationed in that closed country.

*I have been able to earnestly beseech the heart of Father God for the hearts, souls, and lives of dear, dear friends that I have come to greatly cherish halfway around the world.

*I was unexpectedly able to join a girlfriend on her trip to Thailand and might have found the next step of the journey.

About two or three years ago--summer of 2009, if memory serves--I had a dream about two pictures posted on Facebook. One was a picture of dried fish and the other was a shot of bottles of beverages in a grocer's chest refrigerator. In the dream, a close friend of mine commented that there was "a better selection in the Asian markets here."

I was just commenting about her comment when I shot up in bed and marveled loudly, "I just had a dream that I was in Asia!" Within months of that statement, I was.

"I can't believe you're leaving," my friend Josh commented offhand this afternoon as I helped him edit his paper one last time. "We've talked about it and you have good reasons, but I still can't believe it."

Neither can I, Josh. Neither can I.

Terrorist Tourism: Underlined

*May 29, 2011*

After Freedom Bridge, the DMZ tour group headed to another famous marker within the Demilitarized Zone: Tunnel Number Three. This tunnel, no bigger than a crawlspace directly underneath the Line of Demarcation, was found in the early 1970s through a North Korean defector. Later, larger tunnels were also found for a total of four currently known to be in existence. In each of them, coal dust was liberally smeared on the walls to disguise them as abandoned coal mines, though none such mines previously had existed in this part of Korea.

These tunnels were allegedly hewn by the North Korean military to provide access to the south for foot soldiers, giving a thousand men the ability to reach Seoul within an hour. The North staunchly denies any involvement and instead suggests foul play by the South, but the chisel strikes to dig out the rock indicate that the tunnel’s workers must have been facing southward.

Our bus pulled up to another parking lot like the one from our previous stop, only it was a quarter the size and minus misplaced carnival rides. Round, dark buildings intimately surrounded the car park on three sides, nearly hemming in visitors. A thick forest stood at attention to the left of the scene.

In front of the cars was perched a tall “DMZ” monogram, nearly innocuous in its friendly pastels. To the right of the initials rested a sculpture of the world divided in half, with a circle of chiseled humanity holding up each side. The building just in front of the bus housed an indoor educational theater and a small museum. To the right of that lay a platform for carting older guests mine-car style into the tunnel.

A signed gleamed in the mid-morning sun, prompting us forward. “DMZ Pavilion,” an arrow pointed to the left. The rest of the message sat mute in hanguel letters, with no other English accompanying it to unlock its tongue. The tour group, armed with its limited information, shuffled inside.

In the Pavilion, designed like an amply accomodating home theater with tiered captain's chairs and a wall-sized panoramic screen, we listened to a voiced-over seven-minute explanation of the existence of the DMZ. The narrator listed the end of World War II and the subsequent Korean War as the primary cause of Korea's tense buffer zone.

Announcer-like, we heard the man proclaim at the end that even through the tragedy of war, the land was still teeming with natural life. Supported by a grand trumpet, his deep voice rang out, “The DMZ is alive!” Moments later, the floor-to-ceiling screen in front of us parted like the Red Sea and we walked through it to a museum adjacent the theater.

Fascinated, I tried reading every snippet of facts the displays had to offer: Here was documentation about the defector who triggered the search for one tunnel--here, how they suspected the second. Lost in the dusty details of the past, I failed to note when my large, largely white tour group had exited the room and left me alone with a swarm of Chinese tourists.

“I'll be in the tunnel if you have any questions,” the tour guide had said. From everything I had read in the museum, I was expecting little more than a hole in the ground, much like the shaft used to discover caves at Natural Bridge Caverns in Texas. What I met with, however, was a whole lot of concrete.

Across the from the DMZ Pavilion crouched what loked like a quiet amphatheater juxtaposed next to empty railroad track which led into a pitch-black cavern. “Don't go up there,” I remember my tour guide chiding. “We have legs. We can walk.” Yet I still didn't know what it was I was walking to.

If hindsight is twenty-twenty, it doesn't help you until you actually look back--which, that day, was the one direction I never tried. Instead, I followed the path from the rail line along the other side of the parking lot towards the bathrooms and a little park next to a large building. Spying a pathway, I walked further into the greenery and around the structure.

Inside the park, I discovered a stretch of fence not ten yards long, directly in the middle of the grass. It stood to one side of a small concrete ditch which bisected the peaceful scene. A tiny red triangle with letters in both languages fiercely guarded its chain links.

“Oh, it's a mine!” I exclaimed breathlessly as I got close enough to read the letters. To its right, a companion fence with the same little red triangle screamed its warming as it ran out into the dense vegetation. It was definitely time to find that tunnel!

I stumbled into the back entrance to what at first appeared to be a gift shop. Shifting my gaze the right I noticed the beginning of a ramp spiralling downward and a shelf full of yellow hardhats. This looked easier than being lowered into a shaft at Natural Bridge; grabbing a hardhat, I ventured inside.

“It's going to take ten minutes to get down there,” December warned as she came back up, her words tinged with wise realism. As I checked my watch again, I knew she was right. I had spent too much time babysitting mines and empty railway shafts to have any more to devote to Tunnel Number three. Plus, I didn't know how I would heave myself 100 or more meters back up the ramp. Reluctantly, I returned my barely-warm hardhat to itself and headed back outside.

Just before we boarded the bus again, I glanced back at the world split in half. Pleasantly, Korean after Korean stood on both of its sides bracing for a picture, their hands on whichever half they chose. I couldn't help but notice that their presence mimicked the bronze statues which continue to people the sculpture long after the last flesh-and-blood tourist has gone home. They really were holding up the world, I thought, pushing it together with each caress of its smooth surface.