The Fullness of Time

The light in the room filters in from the bright florescent bulbs in the kitchen, blocked faintly by the opaque wooden entry door. A small pile of unwanted clothing sits quietly in the shredded armchair across from the bed, the feline claws which usually snag into its fleshy leather now more than twelve hours gone. Astride its weary companion, a makeshift dresser stands slightly askew but ready, attentive to the contents of its still-full drawers.

On the armchair's other side rests a stunted fridge, empty but for expired, frozen noodles and cold onion husks. To mirror this emptiness, the only kitchen cabinet in the unit fills itself with one shiny metal kettle, three pans, and a sprouting bag of potatoes. Above, where the dishes are kept, rest two lonely plates and one spoon, fork, and knife each. Just enough for one last meal: breakfast.

Tomorrow's moving day.

As I sit here in the quiet dimness, the air still without Frankie's shrill bellows, it's hard to take in what I know the morrow surely brings. The abortion of a school year, just three months into its gestation. Fractured trust from parents and staff alike. A cancellation of a contract so newly signed. Oh what shattering news comes swiftly in a fortnight!

Two Mondays ago, the sixteenth, I was still oblivious to the financial storm clouds looming over my tiny hagwon. My plan then, as I had so recently informed my Texas family, was to see them in three months after working through my final summer in Korea. I had known I was coming home; I just thought it would be a little further away than now.

Two days later, the message trickled down from management that the worst had hit: Barely afloat for the last several months as students oozed through our cracks and into other hagwons, Apple Tree could no longer afford to keep from drowning in its overhead costs. Its captain would let it sink on the 31. And my apartment would go down with it.

The news didn't hit me as tragically as it had some. If my manager had called me into her office to tell me lunch was ready, I'd have felt the same. What has replaced the sense of devastation is instead this feeling of expectancy.

Just the night before I had explained to a close friend about my apprehensiveness of the hagwon's current progress and its plans to revamp the curriculum. And as soon as I told her the news, the friend quietly replied, "Wow! ...God does indeed have plans for you to come home early." And I have to agree that she's right. True, losing one's job, one's place to live, and one's alien registration within two weeks is an unstable position at best. But no matter what others might say, I can see the hand of God even through the uncertainty.

I see Him opening doors for me to participate in a missions trip to Thailand that I wouldn't have ever tried to plan on my own. I see Him strategically placing me in a country town with a woman who unknowingly desires the blessings of the LORD, to witness of His great love and His gospel. And I see Him giving me opportunity to pray over and speak life into those He brings across my path. I saw the LORD guiding me even as I came to Korea, and I marvel at His hand over me now.

The thing that amazes me the most at the close of my time here is the willingness of those whom God has deliberately put in my path to go out of their way to provide for me: Already I've had three close friends in Dongtan volunteer their homes for the next three weeks, one of them visibly concerned about where I would store my luggage. Yet another woman has suggested I stay the weekend with her in Hongcheon. Still a third couple suggested I could crash at their place for a day or two if I needed to head down to Chungju. As I hear the offers spoken, I cannot help but know that these are urgings from the Holy Spirit and I cannot help but feel the LORD's great love for me throughout them.

It is the fullness of His time.

Three's a Crowd

Sunday, January 16, my friend Young Sook (far left) brought me to her small church for a time of prayer, fellowship, and worship, Korean style. The coldest day of the year at -17 degrees Celcius (1.4 degrees F), we huddled warmly on the ondol floor in an apartment at the back of the sanctuary. It was in this tiny space, presumably the pastor and his wife's parsonage, that I met Jimin (center) and Jihyun (right), sisters five and seven years my junior, respectively.

As we prepared for a second service in the afternoon, Jimin started the list of polite questions that I've come to expect from Koreans: Where are you from? How old are you? and the like. Then I asked her one. "What kind of American food do you like?"

"Cream suh-pah-get-ty," she told me, beaming. "I love cream spaghetti."

I remembered the ample supply of spaghetti noodles in my pantry that I had inherited from a friend who had recently emigrated back to the States. "Would you like to come over for dinner this week? Tuesday?"

As soon as she heard my offer, Young Sook instantly wanted to come along. This also meant Jihyun would like an invitation, too. I briefly pictured my postage-stamp apartment in my head and shuddered to think how extra people might fit. "But I only have room for one other, maybe two other people," I protested.

My friend stood up in mock defiance and held up her hand as if she were pledging loyalties. "I'll stand!" she proclaimed.

"But what about Frankie?" I asked her, knowing how much she disliked him. She hadn't come over during the holidays just for that reason.

"Oh," Young Sook said sadly. "Fooh-rank-y."

"It's okay. I can put him away in the laundry room. He'll be fine." After a few more minutes to work out the details, everything was set: a dinner party at 7:30 P.M., Tuesday, the 18th for a place setting of four; the menu, cream spaghetti, spinach salad, and pan-fried hobak (호박)--a soft, neon green, zuccini-like squash that Koreans call "sweet pumpkin." It would be the first time so many people had come to visit my apartment in Korea.

I had just enough plates and bowls for each of us, if you counted the one oddly shaped, ivory-colored plate amid its porcelain white companions, and my collection of mismatched bowls. But I only had two pair of chopsticks, one knife, and two forks and spoons each. I also lacked sufficient glassware, possessing just two cups and three mugs. Making the entree and side dishes for four would be easy enough; however, my lack of adequate tableware posed a bit of a problem. As I served tea later that night, my three guests were given the mugs, while I happily sipped from my last clean bowl.

The night of the 18 arrived, expectation scenting the air of my apartment as I entered. After putting away my things from school and petting Frankie, I quickly dusted my cubby-hole bookshelf, cleared away the electronics from the T.V. stand that served as my dresser, and positioned my computer atop my short refrigerator. I then moved the stand to the middle of the room and arranged my four "chairs" around it--the corner of my bed, a small living room armchair, a gray and black folding chair, and my plastic red stool used for reaching the bar in my closet. A small space about a two feet wide was left open to the right of my huddled furniture, what could be used to squeeze in and out of. Provided that no one wanted to get up during the meal, we might have just enough room.

Once my guests arrived, Young Sook claimed the the corner of the bed; Jihyun, the folding chair across from me. Jimin sank into the armchair across from Young Sook and I took the remaining seat, my red stool. Situated as I was, I had only to twist to my right and take two steps to be in the kitchen stirring the food. If I twisted left, I could conveniently stack used plates and bowls on a portion of my bookshelf. If I needed something from the refrigerator across the room, I had only to ask Jihyun to find it. My apartment could fit a party of four, it seemed--though just barely.

L to R: Young Sook, Jimin, and me.

I knew how much Koreans savored tasty food, particularly how highly they valued the Western variety. This in mind, I had done my best to present an elegant, American-style dinner to my guests that evening, complete with homemade honey mustard dressing for the salad and store-bought flan (incorrectly labeled "pudding" on the package) as dessert's finishing touch.

Of my three friends, Jihyun was the most vocal in her reaction. "Mashisoyo!" she declared as we began the meal. It's so delicious! "Oh-tooh-keh?" What should I do? She was so impressed with the salad dressing that she asked which bottle it came from. When I confessed it had none, at Young Sook's sugestion she searched my refrigerator and cabinet for the deli mustard and sweet honey I had used, to take pictures of them for future reference. I hadn't the heart to tell her that the mustard had actually come from the States.

L to R: Jimin and Jihyun

Though I enjoyed the whole evening and its pleasant conversation, the thing I found most delicious was what came with our tea after dessert: lavender-colored blueberry roll cake from Paris Baughette, one of the foremost bakery's of the country. Its texture was spoungey-soft, with bits of blueberry in the batter and a light purple cream between the layers to hold it all together. Its flavor was tangy-sweet, berry-like yet buttery and fluffy. It felt as if I were eating my favorite color. Amazed at the delicacy in front of me, I declared, "It tastes like purple!"

I was happy the girls had brought the cake as a house-gift, yet much more happy to have them as guests in my home. If the adage is that "two's company [but] three's a crowd," four must double the camaraderie. I will gladly welcome their fellowship again, whatever spacial issues may come.