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.

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?

Terrorist Tourism: Freedom

*May 29, 2011*

The busload of foreigners pulled up into the vast empty parking lot, a six-foot marker reading “Imjingak” in white Roman script looming in front of it at the entrance. Less than a hundred yards to the right of the sign hung a traditional Korean victory bell in a large white gazebo, which was meant for wishing good health and harmony. Far off the lot to the left stood a small sleepy carnival, all but deserted so early on a Sunday morning.

The tour guide at the front of the bus held a portable mic in his hands. “I don’t know what the theme park’s about,” he was saying to his guests. “It’s supposed to be a memorial.” Through the crowd’s nervous laughter, he relayed the time for the tour group to be back on the bus. They’d have fifty minutes to explore the grounds—just be back by 9:30 sharp.

We had thus arrived at the first stop on our tour of the DMZ: Freedom Bridge, where North and South Korea had exchanged prisoners throughout the Korean War. In disuse due to the frail, half-century stalemate, it had been appropriated by the southern government as a place of remembrance and a monument of peace. “Are you ready for a bridge adventure?” my seatmate asked.

The first thing I stumbled upon as I mounted the two flights of stairs astride the victory bell pavilion was a large display case full of rocks. There were dozens and dozens of them “collected from 86 battlefields in 64 different countries,”—silent witness to the violent atrocities man had committed against his fellow man. “It is my sincere wish that the bringing together of these stones… will be a stepping stone for the reunification of the Korean people,” the message said, “and mark the beginning of a century of peace and harmony for all mankind.”

Just beyond the rock display and over a lip of concrete lay a pleasant row of trees with a posted warning not to photograph what lay beyond. The bare ground beneath the sign spoke a silent testament to the many feet that had belayed the order. In the distance one could see a long white bridge across the Imjingak River towards the left, severed from further connection only by a thin border of chain-linked fence.

North Korea.

I ventured to the left of the scene towards the white bridge in the distance. Another fence blocked off this part of the exhibit as well, this time covered in mourners’ ribbons. “Although I am not part of the generation who has lost,” read a fresh white ribbon in English, “I feel the enormous pain of those after coming here. I wish for unification of not just the countries but of families, friends, and lovers. 2011 SUMMER Julia Joo.” I couldn’t help but agree with her, this anonymous Julia: I hadn’t lived through the war, either, yet I felt Korea’s wound still throbbing.

On the opposite side of the ribbons stood a closed ticket counter. According to the signs it was purported to be part of a certain Gyeongui railway system, apparently a company no longer servicing rides. I couldn’t understand the juxtaposition of an empty railroad booth together with memorial ribbons—that is, until I saw the train.

Ten yards in front of the booth, an ancient locomotive rested on stunted rail line as though it were in a coffin. Above it, a wooden bridge crossed the scene respectfully like those walking along the backside of headstones. Rust covered the corpse like an orange-red burial shroud. Bullet holes riddled its sides like a scream choked at the throat just before death. Mitzubishi’s broken triangle tattooed its still flank, a testament to its once glorious youth.

North Koreans had gunned down the engine on its last run, the plaque read. And now it stood as a somber reminder of the North’s still-threatening potential for violence. A casualty of an antique war.

On the opposite side of the railway ticket booth from the memorial ribbons stood the famed Freedom Bridge, built in 2000 according to its dedication plaque for “breaking the fifty-year barrier.” It straddled a serene park fifty yards below, and pointed towards yet another string of fence. Above the jagged barbed wire curling anxiously over the top of the scene at the bridge’s end flew three flags: two for Korea and one a calming baby blue. Covered in ribbons like flower bouquets on a casket, the fence blocked off the place of exchange for the two warring brothers.

Far below in the memorial park ran a pathway along the sides of two ponds, one a deep green covered in rich vegetation and the other crystal-blue and ever-churning with a short geyser in its midst. To the left of the geyser rose a pale thin sculpture of two bent sheaves of granite loosely tied together with a dark gray granite cord. “We are the one,” its sign admitted painfully. Tears misted my eyes like a shroud of mourning as I drank in the symbolism. Yes, you are, I noted inside my head. The other just doesn’t seem to see it that way.

I looked around for my seatmate after quietly leaving the memorial, only to find him waiting to board the bus with the last stragglers just as the minute hand struck thirty. “Just in time,” he winked at me, “with the first souvenirs of the day.”

Kicking the Bucket

"Jennifer, can I talk to for a minute?" my new director Jackie asked me towards the end of last week. When I followed her out to the foyer and the receptionists's chair, she continued. "We need to talk about your last day, so we can renew your contract and submit it to the immigration office to extend your visa."

I was taken aback for a moment, surprised at the suddenness of my director's request. Her first official day on the job had been just three days prior--and already she was aggressively tackling a legal issue I had been waiting to resolve for three weeks. "Let's discuss that a moment," I paused. It wasn't that I was hesitant to leave Korea, just that I was amazed that the time had finally come.

The moment I started to ask, Teacher Chloe deftly pulled a calendar from her desk and we began pouring over it. I knew I'd be leaving for a friend's party in the States come the middle of August, but I didn't want to start a new month and a new semester just to have to leave one week later. The three of us studied the graphic a moment before settling on a date: July 31, 2011. At just over four months away, that wouldn't give me much time.

Since I'm unsure if I'll ever have a chance to come back to the Land of the Morning Calm, I've compiled a Korean Bucket List--what I call my ADHBF: Adventures to Have Before Flying Off. My goal is to spend what's left of spring and all of summer exploring. If I devote two weekends a month to the project until I leave, I just might accomplish it all!

***

Moham 모험: Adventure

Korean Bucket List

Attend one of Matt's bi-monthly game nights in Chungju.

Eat dog. At least once.

Experience a cat cafe (where they let you pet them, not EAT them).

Fly or ferry to one of Korea's subtropical islands for the weekend.

Have a conversation in Korean with someone other than in the market or a taxi.

Hike Bukhansan Mountain.

Step foot onto Dokdo, Korea's hotly contested island shard in the East Sea (Sea of Japan).

Take the Chungju Ferry to Danyang.

Tour the DMZ.

Watch the sunrise from Korea's East Coast.

Visit another of Korea's national parks.

"You Might Be a Redneck"

Nearly anything on wheels goes for street traffic in South Korea. Two-wheeled motorbikes transform into fast-food delivery trucks as they weave in an out of lanes, careening toward their next paying customers. Buses, too, crowd the streets with populations nearly as numerous as the cars, steering toward pockets of humanity patiently awaiting their arrival. These have become almost indispensable parts of local surroundings, as expected in a Korean cityscape as the stone walls of a historic palace. Yet the vehicles populating the country’s roadways these days still have the power to surprise from time to time—just like the one I witnessed last November.

At 12:15 that Saturday afternoon, I checked my watch to monitor my progress. I had been walking for ten minutes and was still two blocks from the station. I quickly brushed past two Korean girls engrossed in animated conversation at a bus stop, then passed a parka-clad woman vending bunches of fresh spinach on the sidewalk. I glanced up to read the traffic sign suspended above the thoroughfare: Highway One, it read. The arrow pointing south indicated Cheonan; the arrow north, Suwon and, eventually, teeming Seoul. Ahead of me lay one of the busiest intersections in Byeongjeom.

As I crossed a grocer’s entryway and stepped onto the red-asphalt sidewalk that propelled me toward the station, I noticed to my left an ajossi with a baby blue down jacket in a black scooter chair six inches below my height. He was sitting in the middle of the street directly behind bus number 12, poised near the exhaust pipes. Opting for a fresher air source, he gingerly crept from his hideout and maneuvered his “four-wheeler” into the sliver of space between the bus and the sidewalk’s concrete bumper.

The approaching intersection’s stoplights are on and fully functional during other days; however, its signals turn to flashing yellow caution lights on the weekends. As crosswalk signs are not lit up at this time, this leaves foot traffic fighting for the right to cross just like other kinds. Horns blare and tempers mount as vehicles and pedestrians alike push toward an opportune time to jut into the chaos and cross back over to safety. As I waited for my cautious turn, I glanced back over my left shoulder to see what might happen with the man on the scooter.

Incredulous, I watched the man pull out from his position next to the bus and float into oncoming traffic. In a matter of moments he had crossed the intersection like a car, this time with a second scooter and the bus trailing behind him. I quickened my pace to follow him, curious at his destination. Confidently he held his course in the center of the road, blocking traffic flow, while I walked along the sidewalk. We parted ways only when he turned left, rounded the corner, and winked out of sight.

I glanced to my left again as I approached the same corner and crossed the adjacent street, curious if I could still find him. The last I saw of the man with the baby blue coat, he was still in his scooter in the middle of the road, slowly leading a trail of cars down a moderate side street towards Home Plus. South Korea, let’s just say, “You might be a redneck.”

Catching the 27

"Be anxious for nothing, but by prayer and supplication, let your requests be known to God." —Phil. 4:6

When I first started working for Apple Tree, then a franchise of the language institute ILS, our director had arranged for the hagwon bus to pick up the other two foreigners and myself in front of our apartment building each morning. Four weeks later, we teachers having moved closer to the main street of Jinan-dong, he still came to get us; only this time, it was just James and myself who awaited him, since Jack was now located much closer to school in Dongtan. Financial situations at the hagwon were changing fast, however, and by the start of summer, our faithful driver had been replaced by bus number 27.

It was impossible to miss, this 27: Its roof and sides were a deep, sunny yellow, the windshield a pair of unblinking, bright eyes. Its denomination rested at the top left corner in a solid red circle with green numbers outlined in white. The schedule was to the left of the denomination, looking like a wide, rectangular uni-brow, solid white with alternating blue and red vertical lettering. Displayed at the windshield's bottom left corner was a thin yellow strip separating this bus from all others. "E-mat-uh Hang," it read in distinctive Greek-like print. It was the only bus that ran from Byeongjeom Station to Dongtan's E-Mart. Lucky for me, it cut right through the center of Jinan-dong.

Since beginning to ride this bus regularly, I have noticed other buses impersonating the uniqueness of the 27. The 35-2, for example, identical but for its smaller stature and blue denomination, often disguises itself in the bleary distance of the busy main street. My heart nearly skips a beat each time I pace towards the crosswalk and watch as a numbered yellow bus streams past half a block in front of me. Most of the time I recognize it as an impostor, but on occasion I have lifted my eyes to note with horror the distinctive red-green numbers speeding just out of reach.

As I arrive at the intersection every morning, I anxiously turn my head up and down the lane, scanning passing vehicles for that shiny sunny-yellow. If I spy it approaching, I quickly exhale a breathless, plaintive prayer: "Lord, it says in Your Word to be anxious for nothing, but by prayer and supplication let your requests be made known to God. Father, STOP THAT BUS!" And then, with a deep breath, I start to run!

This morning I exited my house just minutes after my 10:30 ETD, silently worried that I might not catch the 10:40 bus to Dongtan on time. I checked my cell phone while passing the GS25, still more than two blocks from the main street and more than three from the bus stop. 10:40, read the time clock. I was late. I kept my eye on the traffic crossing the distance in front of me, reasoned that I might have to spend 15 minutes awaiting transportation, and continued onward.

I spied the tell-tell red circle while I was in the middle of the last block, just before reaching the main street. Meters from the intersection, I picked up my pace and sprinted across the striped pedestrian lane, the crosswalk signal hysterically blinking its warning. As I reached the other side and turned parallel to the street, I noticed the 27 lingered seconds longer than normal at my bus stop. Another lady was desperately run-walking to catch up with it—perhaps I still had a chance!

The woman reached the bus stop nanoseconds after the 27 had left it. Her stamina or willpower, or both, must not have thought the race worth the fight, for she gave up and turned in toward the three-sided structure to await another bus. I thought of joining her as I jogged toward the scene, then noticed up ahead that the 27 had slowed and almost stopped less than a block away. It was unusual behavior for any bus to stop if it weren't on their route--indeed most of them don't even stop for traffic signals! On another day, it might have kept driving to the light two more blocks further down.

My feet kept pounding the pavement as I ate away the distance, sweet victory within reach. Four inches shorter than I might have been on the sidewalk, I knocked on the closed yellow doors to petition the driver to let me in. Compassionately, generously, he agreed. And I breathed a long sigh of relief.

Sah Kyehjole: Interlude

My childhood home: 3407 Ackerman Rd.

One thing that living abroad has allowed many ex-pats to do is to take trips around the South Pacific and other parts of Asia. Among other benefits, these short furloughs allow an interlude from the fast-paced life of Korea and a chance to experience other seasons around the world. However for me, instead of travelling to another country, I chose to take my break from Korea back in Texas to experience a season of a different kind--my brother getting married and adding not one, but two new members to the family. Along with sharing in my brother's joy, I was able to spend some time with some very dear friends of mine and make some new ones. It was hard leaving for Korea in the beginning, harder still the second time around. In some ways, it feels as if I left my heart back home with many of my loved ones.

April 2010: Interlude

Makgan 막간

Meet Kristin: She was the Christian woman who sat with me on the 9+ hour plane ride from Tokyo to Los Angeles. Come to find out, she was best friends with the sister of one of my friends from Chungju! We had the chance to encourage each other in the LORD.

Faces from House Church. Top to Bottom: Lizzie, Firoozeh, and Sharam; Sam and Christina; Firoozeh; Lizzie. These are the people that were in my life just prior to leaving to Korea. It was sweet to see them and be encouraged by what God's been working in their lives.

The Tolliver Gang! I met Mary-Ellen (far left) four years ago during my last year at TLU, and she has been a precious friend ever since. Here we are with her beau, Stephen, and her older brother Adrick at a Mexican restaurant in Seguin.

This is Toastmasters International, a Christian organization which seeks to give its members ample opportunities to give speeches in front of crowds; participating in it has become one of my dad's hobbies. It became a wonderful time to spend with my parents while I was home. That night, I had a chance to try my skills at public speaking with an impromptu exposition about my favorite meal in Korea, dokkgalbi.

My best friend Heidi and her sweet boys, Brody (the older one) and Nikki. Without her support, I would have never made it here in Korea.

These are my closest, oldest friends back home. L to R: Carla, Kamil, me, Amy, Matt, Kim, and Kamil's wife, Darcy. While I was home, they took me to dinner at Blanco Cafe, a modest but popular Mexican restaurant in the middle of town. After dinner, we went to hear Cleto Rodriguez, a Christian comedian who used to attend my home church.

Rehearsal and Dinner: The night before the wedding became a sweet time for me to spend with my family before having to journey back to Korea the following week.

The day after the wedding, we gathered together at Christy's parents' house for lunch, fellowship, and to watch them open their wedding presents.

Along with a gift for the couple, I brought other gifts from the Land of the Morning Calm to pass out to my family--which my mom thoroughly enjoyed.

This is a group of people--my family, really--to whom I have stayed close since graduating high school and joining their "college group." Brenda (top), her husband, and children have ministered to me greatly over the years, along with my dear friend Carla (bottom). As I rode with Carla back home one night, she told me, "It was a big thing that you left and it matters that you came back."

The night before I caught my plane flight back to Korea, Kim (above) asked if we could get some late-night dinner at the local IHOP and catch up, "since you're probably not gonna get sleep tonight anyway." As it was the last time I'd get to see her for a while, how could I refuse?

A Ticket to Ri-Hi-Hide

As early as the beginning of September, I have wanted to go to a little-visited country in the Horn of Africa called Ethiopia. I had just found out that some friends would be moving there shortly and I hoped that, as a somewhat experienced expatriate by now, I could encourage them in their transition. "I don't know if this is from the LORD or not," I wrote in an email, "but can I come visit you?"

The two of them--my friend and her husband--had been on my heart ever since I first learned of their trans-Altantic venture. I had met the couple two years before through an organization that we were all three a part of in my hometown. Because we were close in age and season of life, those of us in the group became close friends. As they had already bid farewell to the members of the organization back home, I felt so sure that I was in a unique position to come alongside them in tangible moral support: I was already out of the country and had already been dealing with many of the situations foreigners tend to face away from home.

If I could just get to them! I thought. I felt so sure I’d get to go for Chuseok, but by the time I checked out ticket prices, only two weeks before the proposed flight dates, they were already far too rich for my meager teacher’s salary. Perhaps I’d be able to afford a ticket for my next week-long holiday, Christmas. It was her favorite holiday, I knew, one that she loved spending with family. If she was necessarily away on Christmas, maybe having me there would make home seem less a little less far away.

My Korean friend Young Sook, who happened to be a travel agent, came over to my house at the beginning of November for dinner. As she sat on my floor enjoying peppery two-bean chili, I told her about the possibility of going to Ethiopia. It was the first time I had voiced my potential plans to anyone besides the friends I would visit, and the first time I actually felt that the trip could happen. Hope filled the night as we sat chatting endlessly about the opportunity. “Ethiopia,” she said in amazement. “Your ticketing, I want.”

Like a good travel agent, that night she advised me when it would be a good time to book such a flight: thirty to forty days out would be best, she noted. Armed with the dates we had chosen for the trip--Sunday, December 26 through Saturday, the first--she worked steadily each week of November to find me a good deal. By Thanksgiving, we would surely need a ticket reserved, if not already bought. Three weeks after the initial friendly consultation, amid piles of the spicy legs and wings of Thanksgiving fried chicken at her house, Young Sook informed me that she had finally reserved an itinerary for me. Perfect. All that was left now was to purchase it.

Because my reservations would only be held for one week, Young Sook asked me to pay for the flight by the second of December. I marked it on my cell phone’s calendar: “Confirm and pay for ticket by this date,” read the memo attached to the following Thursday. One step closer.

Thursday night grew ever closer, and with its approach, a growing sense of dread filled my heart. From its conception, I had been debating the wisdom of such a weighty decision as spending $1500 on something so frivolous as a plane ticket. Here I was on the eve of purchase with no more sense of peace than when I had started praying about the trip in September.

My hesitation to follow through was two-fold: The ticket Young Sook had found would cost $1800, almost double what I had found by myself weeks ago while searching quickly for a deal online. Already nervous about spending much of my savings on the trip, I didn't know how prepared I was to fork over all of it just on a ride to get me there. The other problem was that the night my friend had found the tickets, I had more than enough to cover the price in my account back home; one week later, however, due to pesky little things called student loans, I would be short $200. Whatever other reason for not following through, I knew that purchasing tickets that day would be financially impossible.

That Saturday, December 4, I decided to visit my friend Josh's Bible study in Seoul. He was scheduled to leave country the following week for a permanent change of duty stations, but would be at the Bible study one last time--so I thought I would come for moral support. It proved to be a powerful afternoon, with many opportunities for the LORD to speak His truth to the hearts that were gathered: We listened to a DVD message about sin being more than just a mistake and to both Josh and another Jennifer giving their testimonies.

We also had an opportunity to ask for prayer. While sharing my thoughts about my hagwon and whether to stay in South Korea for a few more months, I considered telling them about my pending trip to Ethiopia. In the end, however, I decided that details of the visit need not be shared.

After finishing our time of prayer, Jenn, the girl who had just told us her story, leaned over to where I sat on the floor, with what she felt was a message from the LORD. "He's asking you to make a decision," she conveyed, "but it’s only because He loves you." I muled her words over in my brain for a few moments as the reality of it sank in. My interpretation: Decide not to go to Ethiopia. Because He loves you.

The more I thought of it, the more I was sure the decision would necessarily be a negative one--a fact I conveyed to my friend in Ethiopia when I chatted with her online about the trip.

"But that's not what she said!" she interrupted, referring to Jenn's message. "Even if it's not to go to Ethiopia, it's not negative. God's plan for you is always the best."

Though I knew she was right, I was still disappointed. "I really want to come," I told her.

“I want you to come, too,” my friend replied. “But if you’re fighting God about it, you would be miserable.”

In the middle of the following week, I wrote in my prayer journal that I felt God had been steadily preparing me for what I was then facing. My paycheck for the month had been two days late by this time and I would still be waiting for it another two days. "If I encounter some emergency between now and the time I get paid," I wrote, "I have money back home to cover it. But if I had bought my plane ticket to Ethiopia last week, I wouldn't have. I never felt released to do so--and now I know why."

That week, I didn't see Young Sook until Friday, the day I was finally paid. "You still think Ethiopia," she told me as we walked toward the bus stop together. "I think not." What I didn't tell her that night was that I was beginning to feel the same thing.

One of my initial worries about paying for the flight had to do with needing enough money left over for transportation and shopping. As I sat crunching numbers in my tiny apartment, I figured I could still make the trip if I bought minimal groceries in December, saved all of my "fun money" for the month until I landed in Africa, and if I was specific in what kind of Christmas present my family could get me.

"Instead of sending me a package this year," I asked them via email, "why not contribute to my trip to Ethiopia?" I was worried for a week as no one had responded to my request, but then I started getting confirmation from them one-by-one. Perhaps the trip was still on!

Wednesday night, December 15, I made one final online search for tickets to Ethiopia leaving from Seoul December 26. As it was a week and a half from the date of departure, I was sure that quotes would be hiked and not affordable. But there it was on my computer screen, the exact price from a month before: China Southern Air, multiple stops, $900. With fees and et cetera, the total cost would come to a little over $1300 USD--much less than Young Sook's estimate, with wiggle room and cash to spare. The trip was finally starting to materialize.

Quickly, I sent her a text message: "I found a ticket I can afford," I wrote.

The next morning, she sent me something back. "Wow trips," she wrote in broken English. "OK!! See you."

That night we sat at her computer to pay for my ticket. I showed her the price that I had found and she instantly got to work. It was like witnessing language fluency, watching Young Sook swiftly punch things like “26DECICNCAN*CZ” into a database system that reminded me of a blue-backed version of DOS. Through various airport acronyms and one-letter commands, within minutes she had put together the exact itinerary for the same price I had found the previous day. I was amazed.

When she had first seen the website I had used, she couldn't believe that the ticket could be 400,000 won less than what she had initially put together for me. Dismayed, she tried to suggest that the site must have offered a fifty percent discount. But finding the price there, amid trusted abbreviations staring back at her, she could not deny the website's accuracy. An affordable price secure in my mind, I told my friend that I had planned to use my American account to purchase the ticket, and we agreed to fax over my information the very next morning.

The morning of December 17, our school's secretary sent over to Young Sook's office the documents necessary for securing my safe passage to Ethiopia. Hours later, the fax still had not gone through. By the time it finally worked, Young Sook sent a desperate message with her account number and bank's name in Korean: "Jennifer," it read, "only cash... ticketing!!"

I called her back moments later, as I should have been preparing to feed my students lunch. "Jeny-pah," she said soothingly. "We are ticketing cash only. Lunchtime, you go. Call you. Happy lunch."

Through a volley of text messages and phone calls that afternoon between classes, with Grace acting as translator, I was able to extrapolate the story: Apparently one of the airlines that Korean travel agencies work with—which just so happened to be the airline I was trying to fly with, China Southern Air--did not accept foreign credit or debit cards. Either I could head to Seoul that instant and physically swipe my card at Young Sook's office, or I could withdraw the money from a global ATM and deposit it into her account. As I had already spent my forty-minute break period for the day and still faced a completely booked afternoon without liberty to fly off to Seoul, the only possibility for me was to visit the local bank.

The prospect of transferring money into someone's account was already nerve-racking, but knowing that I needed first to convert it to cash, which could be lost or stolen, upped the ante. Nervously, I fit my foreign card into the mouth of the ATM and pressed the "English" button, asking to withdraw 1,000,000 won (about $800) from my American account. Denied twice, I finally just asked for 500,000, which the machine spit out in fifty bright green 10,000-won bills. There I stood with a two-inch wad of cash, my entire student loan payment for the month in my hands. This being just under a third of what I needed, I tried withdrawing 500,000 more only to be denied again. Struck with the realization that my limit for ATM withdrawals on the account was $500, I sulked back upstairs to class.

"I couldn't take out the money," I tried telling Young Sook as I stood at the elevator. "I can't buy the ticket today."

"Jeny-pah," she replied. "Call you back."

"No, I have class," I tried to say--but she hung up and cheerily called me right back, just as promised. Again I tried explaining that I wasn't able to transfer the money and needed to go to class. When she still didn't seem to understand, I told her I would just have to call her back during my break.

On the phone with her forty minutes later, she reminded me that airport ticketing agencies would close at five and that I should transfer the money right away. I tried explaining the situation, but as I had gotten nowhere by the start of my next class, I handed the phone to back to Grace. Moments later, as I began instructing my near-fluent seven-year-olds, Grace knocked on my door, her basket of teaching supplies in hand. It was just a few minutes till four p.m.
"Jenny-fur," she said nervously, "ah, you have to go to the bank and transfer money to the account. Go to KB bank. You have to be back by four-thirty. You have to go now! They close at four." Quickly I explained the lesson to her, grabbed my jacket, and raced downstairs, trying to beat time.

I first approached KEB, a branch just a block away on the corner of our winding street, only to see their "365 Bank" open but the staircase leading to the lobby on the second floor barred by a heavy metal gate. "No," I shouted to the blinking automatic tellers. It was then that I remembered I needed to find KB instead, and walked back outside to search the business district's towering edifice. Spotting the bank mere yards away, I ducked inside and tried the second floor.

The elevator opened and I stepped into an empty hallway with a gated entrance to my right, moments too late. Just as I turned to go back downstairs, a door to the side of the gate swung open enough for two figures to emerge, the shiny wooden flooring from the lobby beckoning me from the other side.

One of the figures I noted to be a young employee of KB bank, and I asked him desperately if I could come in. "Mo-ney trans-puh," I offered feebly, to which he reluctantly agreed. He led me through the deserted lobby to a woman's desk and began filling out requisite paperwork for the exchange. I held up my card to show them the money wasn't coming from a Korean bank. "Can I use this?" I asked. At the sight of the card, he offered to escort me downstairs and to another global ATM for me to withdraw the necessary cash.

"I can't," I said as we waited for the gate to lift enough to duck through the opening. "I can't take out any more money. I will show you." I stood with the two employees for several minutes as I tried in vain to take out more cash, being denied each time.

Back upstairs, members of the bank staff asked to call my travel agency and as I waited for them to get in touch with Young Sook, I had another idea. "Can I borrow your computer?" I asked the young man. If cash wouldn't do it, an online transfer might work. I glanced at my cell phone: 4:27. I might have just enough time.

The young man showed me to a computer that could have been as ancient as my ten-year-old desktop I had left back home. While waiting for it to boot up, staff members motioned me to the phone. "Jenny-pah," Young Sook said sympathetically. "Air-fort close five p.m. Today not ticketing. Today my home you go." I nodded and put the phone back in its cradle.

That night at Young Sook's house, I tried booking the flight online--only to be told by the website that my bank in the States had denied such a hefty purchase. Young Sook nodded understandingly. "China Southern Airlines," she said, "cash only." We agreed for me to call my bank, ask for permission to withdraw more money, and meet again the following day.

At 10:15 that Saturday morning, eight days exactly to the day of my flight, I showed up at her doorstep, ready to hand over the rest of the ticket price and be on my way. After all, my bank had assured me the night before that the limit on my account would be temporarily raised enough to cover the cost. Young Sook and I approached another global ATM to discover the same problem still existed--only now I had in my hands not one student loan payment, but two.
"It's okay," she said to me. "You give me one million and I pay the rest. You give me money Monday. Okay?" I agreed and walked her to KB to deposit the cash. Later, as the bus to Byeongjeom Station pulled up to its nearest stop, she assured me that she would have the tickets before one that afternoon.

In front of the ATM at the top of the steps of the station, she called back. "Jenny-fur, oops," she said by way of apology. "My account not money. Your one million, but not money." Apparently, then, we would have to purchase the journey one leg at a time. "Which ticket you want? Incheon to Gwangxou (China) ticketing, okay?"

As I sat semi-comfortably on the subway, my phone rang again, this time with worse news. "You on your way to Seoul?" she asked, hoping I wasn't. "Jenny-pah, yesterday Ethiopia flight one seat, you remember? Today not. No seat."

My heart sank further as I continued to listen. It was hard to hear her over the roar of the train, but the message was clear--exactly what I knew the LORD had been prompting for weeks.
"Tomorrow we are meeting ticketing okay?"

"No," I said authoritatively. "No. I can't go."

"There's been a change of plan," I wrote in my next email to my friend in Ethiopia, relaying the myriad complications of failing to purchase my ticket.

"Sweet Jennifer," she wrote back, "I think God's REALLY trying to tell you he has other plans for you next week. I love you, and I wish I could get to see you, but we need to walk in obedience more than anything."

All I could say in reply were four simple words: "I. think. you're. right."

Sah Kyehjole: Winter

Winters in Korea look a lot like they do in Virginia, Maryland, or (as I'm told by friends who are from there) Minnesota and even Idaho--not, however, like they do as far south as Texas. Winters where I come from tend to look a lot more like any normal locale's fall season: a bit nippy, sometimes down-right chilly, and on freak occasions actually below thirty-two degrees. My grandparents, who have been farmers all of their seventy-plus years, think it's a good winter if we get "one good freeze."


As a consequence of Texas' unpredictable climate, I was non too prepared for the bare temperatures I felt as I huddled near the warmish space heater in our closet-like office last year. This, I was to learn, was my first real taste of winter's icy fist, which for the next five months locked the peninsula in what Andy liked to call a "frozen tundra." The first snowfall of the season fell in the middle of the night around November 5, uncharacteristically too soon according to many Koreans, with the last falling sometime mid-April. I returned to Korea from my visit to Texas near the beginning of May to find temperatures had only warmed up to a barely-tolerable, layer-peircing five degrees Celcius (40 degrees F). To my dismay, I still needed a long thick sweater on the first of June.


Being that our hagwon was without consistent heating, equipped with the smallest of space heaters that did little to melt the ice-condensation on the floor or erase the visible puffs of breath from our mouths, I was loathe to move from my chair to the classroom for most of 2009's winter season. Each day as I prepared to leave my apartment, its thermostat always set to 30 degrees Celcius (85 F), I layered stockings over stockings and turtlenecks over longsleeve tees to combat the conditions I knew I would find at school. I was never without one of two knit sweaters and always wore a thin jacket underneath my mother's bulky winter coat whenever I stepped out of doors.

Yet for all my layers, my preparations still seemed inadequate to ward off the grip of Korea's icy winter chill. As a way for me to cope mentally with the incessant cold, the running joke in the office with Andy and Brandon was that they should wake me up in three months. My blunders, however, were never far from scrutiny--and this was apparently no exception. Brandon commented one day upon reflection, "You know, you keep saying March. But what if it's still cold [then]?"


But it just had to warm up by March, I was sure--so sure that as I packed my bags the last weekend of February in preparation for my move to Suwon, I stuffed my mom's big blue ski jacket inside a small box and left it at Andy's house, to be picked up at my earliest convenience. Confessing what was inside the box to Andy while en route to my new home, he offered, "Well you know that was a stupid idea." He proved himself right when temperature dipped low again for one "last cold snap" that week, while I huddled without a proper jacket to wait for the bus.


It was a long, bitter winter for the inhabitants (and transient residents) of Korea's pennisula for 2009-2010, with record-deep snowfall at the beginning of January in Seoul and as far south as Chungju. Yet for all its harsh reality, the season still proved itself to be filled with surprises and adventure. My dad once told me that "there's nothing for you in this season." When I offered that to my friend Anna, she observed that perhaps that means I should just look more closely for ways to enjoy it. Though I think Dad is still right on some level, I'm beginning to appreciate the changes, rhythms, and seasons of the life that the LORD brings. Even bitter ones turn beautiful if you let them.

***

Winter: Kyah-ul 겨울 2009

I had the chance to experience my first real snow last December in a posh eatery on the outskirts of Chungju, on the other side of the Chungju Dam.

For last winter vacation, I was able to take a modest trip around Korea. Here I am en route south to Gwangju to visit an acquaintance on a train that felt, save for hot-hot-hot-hot choc'late, like the Polar Express.

This is Gwen, the woman who saved my luggage. She lives in Gwangju and offered me a place to stay when I came to visit.

This is a group of Korean believers who welcomed me to their church, the foreign new-comer, with open arms. The woman to my left was my translater, the sister of the girl to the right in the foreground. I felt so loved there--and felt the Spirit move so freely--that for a moment I seriously contemplated making the three+ hour commute every weekend just to be a part of their fellowship.

Welcome to Busan: where big city meets Korean small-town country. This eatery in the express bus terminal looked so warm and inviting--and so much like an American diner--that I stopped and ordered a roll of kimpap while pouring over my tourist map to figure out my itinerary for the day.

When I first got to Busan, I found this bloom and remember being amazed that such life could blossom in wintertime. I marveled at its ability to thrive in such harsh conditions.

One night's stay in Busan cost me 60,000 won (about $48), but it was well worth the splurge as I had a plush bed to sleep in, a nice street view, and an actual SHOWER to stand in that didn't leave my bathroom floor and everything left on it sopping wet.

My whole reason for visiting Busan was to pay my respects to the UN Memorial Cemetary to honor my grandfather, who had served in the American Armed Forces and was stationed here in Korea during the Korean War. The row of flags represents the 28 nations who came to South Korea's aid for those three years of open conflict.

This is the traditional house I stayed in during my visit to Jeonju. The place was cozy and the staff was hospitable, with tea brought to my door and traditional breakfast served hot and fresh in the morning.

During my stay in Jeonju, I visited their cathedral and had a chance to sip a cup of fresh dechu tea with a wonderfully sweet woman from their cultural museum. She sat by me, chatting with me and teaching me snippits of Korean as I savored her sweet creation. Among the many Korean teas availible, dechu remains my favorite.

Dal Cheon's Christmas service: Here youths are gathering at the front to read letters written to their parents to thank them for the support and encouragement they had provided throughout the years. Though I couldn't understand much of what was said, the scene itself was very touching.

"Stocking stuffers" given as a Christmas present from Dal Cheon.

Christmas Dinner! After our Christmas Day service at my adopted Korean church in Chungju, Dal Cheon Kam-ri Gyo Hwi (달 천 감리교회), my then-director took me out for ja-ja-meon, a "Koreanized Chinese" noodle dish traditionally prepared by hand (notice the scissors in my director's hands used to cut the noodles; surprisingly, they are quite effective). I had a chance to watch the man in the back make a batch of fresh noodles by wrapping the stringy dough quickly by his wrists like a jump rope and stretching it repeatedly. It was an art quite fascinating to watch.

One of my friend Anna's and my favorite pastimes last winter was skiing; during the season, we went twice. It took me a bit to remember how my feet worked clamped to boards almost as long as I am tall, but once it came back to me I really started to enjoy myself. No, Brenda, I did NOT yell at anyone on top of the mountain. But on the steepest slopeI had yet encountered, I took off my skis, pointed my feet downward, and had the slide of my life!

January 16, 2011 will mark a year to the day that I brought my Frankie-boy to come live with me. He has been such a precious blessing!

The day I got Frankie, Dal Cheon took their youth on an outing to go sledding--and took me with them. As I had yet to experience the joy of tumbling down a frozen slope in style, I gave it a try and had a BLAST!

The boys surprised me with a Paris Baugette chocolate cake in the form of a miniature, edible piano for my birthday. There was so much of it left that I divvied it up into cups and passed its pieces out to all my classes throughout the day. I laughed at having to use chopsticks to eat my treat--until I later realized that it's just the norm in Korea to eat cake without a fork.

Lauren, one of the sweetest office staff members there is to work with in South Korea.

Coming on the 24th of February and just after San Antonio's only real cold snap, my birthday always marks the end of winter for me; this year it marked the end of more than just that. Less than a week later, I said goodbye to Chungju and packed my bags to head north for the coming spring and yet a new life season. But not before being serenaded by the musical talents of Mr. Andy Afternoon Levin: My birthday treat was an evening of tasty shabu-shabu followed up with mouth-watering solos, duets, and a group debut of "Happy Birthday" at the local nuraebang.

Boys and Girls of the Ju, here's to you!