Lost Boys

Meet John Bul Dau. He doesn't live in Korea--nor, in fact, anywhere in Asia. He's not from my hometown or any of the places I have ever visited. I've never met him in person, but his story is compelling. He's a very tall, black man from Africa who currently lives in Syracuse, New York, with his wife and daughter; how he got there is miraculous. He has written a memoir on the subject called God Grew Tired of Us. "They call me a Lost Boy," he writes. "[B]ut let me assure you, God has found me" (7).

I had heard of the Lost Boys of Sudan in passing, but I had no real understanding of what the term meant. I had no real interest in learning about them, either, safe and provided for as I was in my own homeland. I bought the book early in 2008, thinking it would help in a research project about unreached people groups. I was grossly unaware of why the book was written at all and remained painfully blind to the conflict Dau's people faced. The research project eventually took off in a different direction and his book sat forgotten on my dusty, overcrowded bookshelf.

I spied the book again in the hands of a friend in Seoul one recent Sunday. I mentioned how I had the book at home but had never read it. She firmly pushed it toward me and urged that I take it, though she had not yet read it herself. I took the book from her, if only to give me material to read on the subway ride back to Byeongjeom, and started it that night. I found the story so captivating that I finished its 287 pages in 8 days.

The book starts during a midnight shelling raid on Dau's childhood home, a southern Sudanese village named Duk Payeul--a raid which forever altered the course of his life. Scrambling to get outside the hut full of sleeping children that he had been resting fitfully in just moments before, he was pulled to safety by a man he presumed to be his father. For the next hours, they watched and listened together as their village burned. This was 1987, the start of a great civil war for Dau's country and a fourteen-year journey for himself. "I have wondered, more times than I can count," Dau writes in his introduction, "if my friends or I would live to see a new day. Those were the times I thought God had grown tired of us" (7).

From Duk Payeul, Bul Dau traces his path on foot across southern Sudan and into an Ethiopian refugee camp just across the border, called Pinyudu. Along the way, he and the man who rescued him--who wasn't his father, but instead a close family friend named Abraham--encountered first three, then a group of nineteen, then eventually uncounted thousands of young refugees heading towards the camp. Most of these young people were boys under the age of eighteen, just like Bul Dau; girls and adults like Abraham were scarce in the group indeed.

Here was an entire generation of orphaned boys resting on Ethiopia's doorstep. The civil war that led them there pushed them further and further away from their villages and eventually out of their homeland altogether. These child-refugees settled safely in Pinyudu for a peaceful few years, but their conflict was far from over. The government who sponsored raids on their villages pursued the displaced multitude yet again, this time from the Ethiopian side. Bul Dau and his friends were caught off guard by the suddenness of the attack and fled with whatever meager belongings they couldn't afford to abandon, wanted fugitives on the run in a place that should have been their refuge.

While reading I realized with devastating certainty that events that fell upon these Lost Boys happened to my generation. Dau was 13 in 1987, the year his government fired on his village and scattered his family; my twin and I were only 3 and my older brother almost 5. In the refugee camps he relocated to, Dau was among the oldest of the boys; countless thousands of others made the trip as six- and seven-year-olds. By 1991, some of the children who struggled into camp could have been my exact age!

As I devoured page after page of his story, I could identify myself with John in very meaningful ways. I have felt the disorientation that he felt as he endeavored to survive in a country not his own among a people not his own. I have worshipped the same God that he worshipped among his fellow refugees as he danced and sang in his native tongue. And I have lived in the same timeframe, though swaddled in peace while he was shrowded in conflict. Our experiences are not so far removed from each other as what at first might seem. John Bul Dau is my peer, in every sense the word carries. What challenged me the most about his narrative was his unwavering faith in Christ. "War would come to us," he writes in his first chapter, speaking of his native southern Sudanese people. "[B]ut God would be with us in our hour of torment and make us powerful again" (36).

The LORD was surely with Bul Dau and his fellow refugees on their painful sojourn. Though they struggled through such devastating hardship, Dau witnessed the LORD provide for their needs and watch over their care through agencies like the UN and World Vision. As the Lost Boys trekked on foot through hostile southern Sudan, on their way to yet another refugee camp, water and food supply trucks followed them. It was amazing to read how the hand of the LORD rested on them as they journeyed. They had to walk through the difficulty, but God made sure they did not walk alone! While they covered the five hundred miles from a makeshift home in Pochala, Sudan, to refuge across the Kenyan border, Dau and the other boys sang a song in Dinka en route to safety:

"As we go through this wilderness,

We thank you [Jesus] and worship

Because your words we have listened to."

Yes and amen, LORD. Yes and amen.

My Baby Pays a Visit

Just before our hagwon's week-long summer vacation started, the teachers were informed that one of our part-time kindergarten staff members would not be at school for a week when we returned, due to a longer vacation time. This meant that we'd have to cover her class: Chinese.

"But I don't speak Chinese!" I nearly shouted at one of my co-teachers, incredulous.

"Don't worry about it," she said slowly. "We will not have Chinese class that week. Just we will do something for the class."

I was later handed a small slip of paper that denoted my time to substitute: second period on Tuesday the 3rd, with K-1. On the weekly schedule for that time slot, where the word "Chinese" used to be, was printed the opened-ended command, "Having Fun." What kind of fun was then left up to us. "I'm glad I wasn't given that [assignment]," an acquaintance of mine noted tongue-in-cheek today. "I would have said, 'Alright, kids, let's read 20 pages of The Economist.' "

I knew the class wasn't going to be the kind of fun my friend had mentioned, but neither would it be "fun-do-whatever." I was loathe to walk in without any real objective for the time I had; 40 minutes or not, the kids still needed some structure. I could always sing with them, I thought--but I have either a song-and-chant or musical-drama class with the kids one to two times a week. I didn't want another repeat of those, for fear of boredom in my regularly scheduled classes. Finally, it donned on me: Why not teach them to read music instead of just sing it? While I'm teaching them to read, there needs be a method for them to practice their skills--so why not an instrument, too?

I'll admit, I got a little carried away in my ambition; after all, this arrangement of extra time was for one week, not six. And they are kindergarteners, still lacking the finer motor skills which would allow them to complete such an endeavor successfully. I finally settled on a simpler approach: Don't worry about teaching them to read music. And don't worry about squawks and bloobles, either. Just introduce them to the idea that they might some day be able to play. It was settled, then--the very next day I would take my baby to school with me and together we would teach the kids about the art of making music.

I would first introduce the concept of music-making to the kids with a couple of etudes. Then I would introduce five of the basic notes and fingerings that I used. I would have the students finger them first on a pencil and then on the gem, my baby. If there were time, I even invented a game for the kids--tossing beanbags into bowls to symbolize which fingers to press on the keys or holes.

The class, I feel, was a rousing success! As soon as my baby and I started playing, virtually all of the kindergarten classes came to listen. As we settled into the bulk of the lesson, only four students remained and I was able to give them focused attention. I called them up front and each were able to not only blow into the clarinet, but actually produce the desired notes. One of my Korean co-workers later mentioned that the kids were so impressed. "Wow," they said. "I want to play an instrument like Jennifer Teacher!" My co-worker suggested that students like these, ones who attend English hagwons, don't really have a chance to try anything musical. She said it was good for the kids to at least be exposed to it. My baby and I had fun that day, for sure. Hopefully there can be a repeat performance in the near future.

Boots

*originially published on my poetry blog, Seedlings*
written July 30-31, 2010

Boots stomp the packed earth,
masticating leaves and twigs
beneath their treads.
Two sets walk the trail:
one smaller,
the texture of her soles
still rough with newness;
the other
worn by pounds
of vegetation he's consumed.

Both pair reach the steps,
the larger lunging forward
to swallow two each stride,
the smaller left
to drink her fill alone.

She finds him,
later,
boots chomping
into sturdy bark like
an alligator's hold.
They attach themselves to
steady ground again,
ever-hungry for terrain.
Her boots protest,
satisfied with their bounty.

She stops,
to him mere pause in dining.
His stride opens
like another mouth to feed.
Boots dig in
to taste the softness of the trail.

Boots waver,
softly nibbling the dust
in circles.
They turn
from
marks that mar the turf
and steal away
unseen
like deer gracefully gliding
past the hunter's blind.

One Last Hurrah

*Saturday, July 10, 2010*

"Emily got her visa this week!" my friend Holly emailed me excitedly at the beginning of July. She was referring to a friend of ours from church, Emily Park, who had been waiting to hear word about when she could leave Korea for the States. She had recently gotten engaged to a young man from California who was currently working in Del Rio, Texas, and was hoping to marry him by the fall. "She will be leaving the last week of July, this month," Holly continued. "Are you still up for going [with us] next Saturday? One last horrah!"

The three of us, Emily, Holly, and me, had grown close during Korea's warmer months. I met them both around the middle of March when I first moved up to Suwon and first started coming to SIBC on a regular basis. We had hit it off right from the start, but it wasn't until May that we began to really get to know each other. On impulse one Sunday afternoon in Itaewon, after discussing it briefly with Holly who was walking beside me, Emily invited me to on a trip to Busan that the two of them were planning for the end of May. The trip itself became the centerpiece of our friendship over the summer and the two of them began inviting me to other events and activities outside church. We enjoyed Saturday outings to the outskirts of Seoul together, times where we took in the view, shared food we had never tried before, and encouraged each other in the LORD.

The plan for that next Saturday was to hit up some islands off the coast of Incheon, a busy metropolis on the Yellow Sea just west of Seoul, after browsing Korea's war museum near the center of town. I packed a sheet for lounging around on the beach and donned my polka-dotted swimsuit for the occasion. As I rode the subway into Seoul that afternoon, however, I learned that plans had changed. It was predicted to rain due to a typhoon [hurricane] hovering over one of Korea's seas, and Emily was worried about weather conditions on the island. The girls still wanted to see the museum, but instead of the island they thought we could hit up one of Seoul's many coffee shops afterwards. Though I was a little disappointed about not going to Incheon, the day turned out to be as crazy, upbeat, and fun as the girls I spent it with!

From L to R: Emily, Dawna, and Holly. Dawna also goes to SIBC and I have had the pleasure of getting to know her over the last several months as well. She went to the same college that Holly did, Bethel College in Minnesota, and knows many of the same people as she. Dawna was a nice, pleasantly spontaneous addition to our trio that day.

We enjoyed an array of foods on the grounds of the museum prior to entering the exhibit. Emily brought steamed mandu and chopped veggies and Holly brought bagels and little single-slices of cream cheese. My sheet made the meal all the more picnic-y.

Dawna, Holly, and I were slightly unprepared for what was meant by the "Korean War Museum." There were literally floors of displays for every war Korea has fought, beginning with ancient battles between the three original peninsular kingdoms. We spent so much time walking through Korea's distant past that we had little energy for what was of greater interest, displays of the modern Korean War from 1951-1953.

Instead of a coffee shop after the museum, we decided to check out Heongdae, a trendy shopping district near City Hall. We browsed an outdoor market near the area, where Seoul's upcoming artists were peddling their wares. It had the feel of San Antonio's First Friday, with interesting handicrafts and even caracture-drawings.

As a prelude to our meal, on the streets of Heongdae we decided to try the world's tallest ice cream cone, for about 1200 won each. It was good, as long as you raced to finish it and didn't let it melt!

We originally journeyed to the shopping district for some tasty Mexican food from Dos Tacos, but when the wait proved two hours decided to try a girl-y pasta place instead. The food was nice, the atmosphere pink, and the company priceless.

As we walked back from the restaurant, Dawna spied a purse she seriously contemplated purchasing. In the end, she decided against it and put it back. Smart move, Dawna. Smart move.

Ringing Taco's Bell

Ever since the two-story banner was posted on a sidestreet in Itaewon sometime before March, I have known about it's arrival. The sign was a billboard, covering the un-rennovated building like a towel covers a wet swimmer after a dip in the pool. I would notice the bulletin from time to time as I walked Itaewon's main strip after church. With collected calm, I watched its opening day approach, quietly indifferent to the change it would invetibly bring. Laura, however, made the event legendary.

"Taco Bell's coming to Itaewon," she announced proudly one day in Chungju. "It'll be opening in June."

I didn't understand her enthusiasm. I hadn't eaten there since I discovered Taco Cabana, a staple of the Texan diet and an authentic Tex-Mex chain that mashed its flour tortillas flat right in front of you. That, I knew, was real Mexican. "Taco Bell's not Mexican food," I replied, nonplussed.


It was a reminder of home in Longview, Washington, she explained--almost as important to her as hearing Rihanna's "Umbrella" every time she docked at a new port during her Semester at Sea. The song, played in almost every country she'd visited, filled her with reassuring familiarity when she heard it; eating at Taco Bell would surely do the same. It's just like me finding a little taste of Texas so far north of the border. Living in Korea just wouldn't complete without a visit to the famed franchise or a meal in its distinguished dining hall.


At the end of February, just weeks after I found I lost my job, Laura informed me that her hagwon was giving her a three-week notice. "We should start a club," she texted. "Mary and Tristan [two others from Chungju who had also lost their jobs] can join." She had until the 15th of March to finish her contract, when originally it was supposed to end in the middle of July. Taco Bell wasn't due to open for at least another three months. This meant one thing--no eating in its hallowed halls. There was one nugget of hope, however: She was scheduling a trip back to Korea mid-summer with her family, as her parents had purchased tickets to visit her just three days before Laura was informed of the tragic news. Perhaps that would give the food chain time to finish rennovations.

Ever-mindful of the approaching day, I watched the busy corner of Itaewon for the anticipated unveiling. Laura's predicted month came with still no sign of life under the "Coming Soon" sheild. When Laura returned mid-June, the grand opening had slipped from the end of the month to the first weekend of July, the next-to-last day Laura would have in Korea. By the end of her trip, however, the date had slunk further down the calendar, to July 11. One week too late.


"I would have still had another two weeks!" she lamented as we glimpsed the impassable curtain, regret slipping from her voice like hot sauce from the corner of her mouth. It was then I decided something had to be done.

On the afternoon of July 11, a Sunday, I was out with some friends in Itaewon after church when I remembered the auspicious occasion. I walked with an acquaintance of mine to the street corner across from the Hamilton Shopping Center and gazed across traffic. On the other side of the street, the white billboard had been taken down, replaced by gleaming windows two stories high and couples enjoying the view from small cozy tables. I briefly thought about stepping inside, but the line (mostly populated with foreigners) stretched from inside the doors past Cold Stone Creamery half a block away. Maybe another time.


It's been more than two weeks since the branch first opened its doors to Seoul's bustling public. Though the frenzy over Taco Bell may not have fully diminished on the weekends, my friend and I figured that a weekday like today might be at least a tamer time to venture in and taste its menu. When we arrived, the line protruded only to the edge of the restaurant's windows, mere meters. My companion suggested we'd have to wait at least 20 minutes just to order, but we had ordered and were seated in under that. We enjoyed our mock-Mexican dishes, a quesadilla and a mild taco salad, with a side of chips and sweet tostsadas--all for about 14,000 won ($12.00 USD). 80's-style English music pouring from the speakers like warm nacho cheese. The dinner tasted mostly like the Taco Bells in Texas that I remembered, though with more fresh vegetables and a curious kiwi salad dressing on the side. The steak salad was well-satisfying and I knew I couldn't pass up a good meal.

Laura Wells, this Bell's for you!

Another Misadventure

Friday, July 23 was the last day for two of our teachers at Apple Tree. As he had finished his contract, Jack was scheduled to leave country Sunday morning. A former student of his had given him a bouquet of roses as a parting gift. "I can't take them with me," he asserted as he looked at me. "Would you like some flowers?"

Another co-worker of mine, Grace, and I were on our way to movie night at her church in Seoul after work that day. I asked if I could stop to pick up a vase and then drop my flowers off at my apartment before heading out. She looked at my profusion of belongings--a sweater I had grabbed because of the coolness of the morning's downpour; my usual large blue travel bag; Jack's bouquet of flowers; and now remnants of the staff party we had had the night before--and said simply, "It's okay. We just be late." I found a short, pretty vase at a store close by and within a few minutes of arriving at home had the flowers soaking in the vase in about five inches of water, with their purple ribbon tied around the middle. I set them between my computer and printer, feeling that it was a secure enough location. Grace commented that visitors would see the lovely flowers nicely where they were--and off we went.

Five hours later, around midnight, I stepped into the apartment again after the engaging night with Grace. Glancing toward my computer, I noticed the flowers had tumbled out of their enclosure and were fanned out in the open space on my dresser. Then I noticed the water: only an inch left in the vase. I gasped. "Frankie!" I bellowed as my cat sat serenely on my washer, enjoying the soft night breeze. I grabbed him and spanked his thigh as hard as I could, twice. "This," I shook him, "is not happening!"

I stomped around the house as I endeavored to clean the mess and salvage what was left of my computer. I had no idea how long the vase had been left lying there or how much water had actually seeped into anything. Most of the water I found had traveled under my computer and sloughed off onto the floor, pooling quietly underneath my armchair. Some of it, however, was left on top of the dresser. Droplets of water leaked out of my computer as I left it to dry on a towel. It wouldn't turn on either time I tried. I slammed the casing down and glared at the cat: "I'm mad at you!" I decided it was a good time for a walk and a little visit to the PC bang.

I felt this nagging peace from the LORD flood my heart, even in my anger. The whole time I saw myself reacting to Frankie's mishap like a good pet owner should, instead of taking stock of my own feelings. Slamming computers and stomping feet was only natural, right? I somehow knew that my actions were wrong and that everything would work out, despite the obvious. As I pretended to huff towards the PC room, I came across a very large crowd of foreigners clustered around two plastic tables in front of GS 25 (a Korean convenience store), around one a man whom I instantly recognized.

"Jennifer?" Jack asked authoritatively. I remember him saying that there'd be a farewell party for him in Byeongjeom that night. Somehow I thought I'd miss it. "Pull up a chair and sit down," he instructed.

As I glanced around at faces, there were few in the crowd I had met or knew personally. Among them was a Scotch named Steven and a woman I had seen with him, Harriet. "This is the first time we've actually seen each other outside Byeongjeom Station, isn't it?" she asked me in her crisp British accent. She had been sitting a good ten feet from the spot I chose to sit in and, when I arrived, decided to get a bit closer. "I actually have a question for you," she said as she took the seat in front of me. "It's probably not the right time to ask this, as I'm drinking and smoking. [But c]an I go to church with you sometime? Possibly this Sunday?"

I was floored. Really? Come on!

Harriet had me hooked from that moment and I forgot all about Frankie, broken computers, and PC bangs. I sat there for an hour listening to her take on Christianity as a whole and her apparent place in it. "I can't call myself a Christian because what defines one is a personal relationship with Jesus and I don't have that. But I feel incredibly drawn to it," she admitted. She talked of loving one another being a central theme in her life and that she wanted to use her life to express God's agape love. She had a surprising amount of knowledge about Christianity in general. I nodded vigorously in understanding as I listened. Lord, I prayed, she's so close! Could she be the reason my computer died?

"Even if I don't come to church with you, I would still like to be your friend," she asserted during our conversation. "Would that be all right?" Again, I was floored. What kind of opportunities was the LORD opening for me that night? I told her I would really like that. "I'd like to have dinner with you," she continued, "maybe sometime this week." We ended the night with her giving me her number and we both promise to check back with each other about the weekend.

She also handed me something else that night. "Are you really cold?" she asked as she watched me hugging my shoulders. "You can wear my scarf because I'm hot." As I tried to object, she took it off and placed the mantel around me. Later when I tried to give it back, she refused. "If you take my second favorite scarf," she said playfully, "then we have to meet up again."

I still have that scarf; it hangs in my kitchen as a reminder of our words together that night and a promise to reconnect. We weren't able to meet for church last week, but I'm hopeful that it can be soon. Yes, indeedy, Harriet, we will have to meet up. Yes, indeed.

Touche

As a group of us walked from SIBC to the hills surrounding Itaewon last Sunday afternoon, I began to share with my church friends about my hagwon's recent struggles. One of our foreign teachers, Jack, was scheduled to leave this week, I said, and as of that moment had not been given a plane ticket home. He was sure he wouldn't be leaving with his government-mandated severance pay, either. He said even I might not get severance when I leave. It was all because of financial difficulty, I knew. I was furious as I recounted the evidence from the last month: the replacement of two of our staff members with one person, the confession that fellow co-workers weren't getting paid in full, and now the knowledge that they had treated Jack unfairly. Reaching a lull in my story, I blurted, "I feel like Andy!"


The day I found out I was leaving Learning Well hit Andy pretty hard. "I don't show emotion very well,"he confessed in the office moments after my revelation. "But this really effects me." Andy and Brandon were both shocked at the news that the school had arbitrarily picked me to go; they would have rather our boss openly discuss the issue with the three of us and mutually choose a suitable candidate. They thought it unfair for me to be the one to blindly leave. Andy was already unsettled by other things he felt were breaches of contract, but the issue with me proved to be "the kicker," as it were: That was the night he made up his mind to return home. The sense of justice in him couldn't stomach the way I was being treated. At that moment in Itaewon last Sunday, I felt the same about Teacher Jack.


"Are you looking for another job?" my friend Sonja asked. "My hagwon is hiring and they want someone by the end of August." Until that moment, I hadn't thought about leaving.


Sonja went on in her descriptions. Maple Bear, she said, was a Canadian-based franchise oriented around Western educational standards. The program was kindergarten-only, where one teacher was with her students all day, allowing for reassuring consistencies in discipline and scheduling. This meant that teachers like me would no longer have to divide their time between younger and older students, or their energies between morning and afternoon classes. It was a hands-on school, not based primarily on a textbook. Children learned a new language "naturally," Sonja affirmed, through play. They had a solid curriculum set up--for which people had been fired for not using--with a plethora of games, multimedia suggestions, and TPR activities built-in.


"Do you put your own lesson plan together?" I asked her.


"We have twenty hours of teaching time a week, roughly," she replied. "And the rest is usually prep. You don't have to spend all that time at school. I usually do my lesson planning at Starbucks."


The freedom to plan your own lessons? I thought. A curriculum with agreed-upon standards? Activities and extra-curricular suggestions that actually fit the target lesson? This was already starting to sound better. "You have a knack for selling your school," I told Sonja over our Middle-Eastern meal.


"If you want, I can give you contact information and where you can send your resume. If they've already done this to other co-workers, you know they'll do it to you. If you already know you're not going to get your severance, why stay? A contract is only good if two people hold it as valid. If they don't hold to it, why should you?" Touche. I left the restaurant that afternoon with a name and email address in my pocket and a decision to make.

Some Christian friends of mine echoed Sonja's comments, telling me to take the chance. "I mean, it's not great to jump ship every couple of months when things get hard," Amanda told me this week via Facebook Chat, "but when you're looking at a serious situation that looks like it could end very badly for you, and you have another great offer on your door, you have to consider it's God's giving you a way out. [...I]t might not be. But it might not be wrong to take it, either. You know?" She and her husband had been through their share of hagwons and sketchy situations: Just in the 10 months that they've been here, they've changing schools three times out of sheer necessity. I knew they could speak from their experience. As we talked, she shared her husband's thoughts. "Jacob is behind me shouting, 'Jump at it!'"

There was much to weigh as I considered both sides. To broaden my perspective a little, I shot an email to Andy when I got home that night explaining matters and asking his thoughts. If he had been through this before, surely he might have a nugget of wisdom I could glean. I also knew I needed to be more well-informed about current situations at my school. While waiting for Andy's reply, I decided it was only fair to consult Jack.

"Jack, can I talk to you about something later?" I asked as I spied him at the water cooler.

"Yeah, sure. What's going on?"

I had wanted him to tell me more about the financial side of Apple Tree, so that I could weigh the risks and potential gains of leaving--but we didn't quite get that far. "I was offered a job this week at another hagwon," I told him.

"Are you sure you want to leave this place for another hagwon?" he asked. "It's a hagwon. You've invest four and a half, five months here. If you leave, you'll have to do it all over again." I nodded and we both walked off to class.

As I pondered the situation from its various angels, the LORD was working in my circumstances. I started to see the return on my investments into ILS/Apple Tree this week. I shared a story with a new church friend as we traveled to dinner Tuesday night: A struggling student in one of my older classes began to show comprehension that day. The class assignment was to draw and then write what happened first, next, then, and last in Aesop's "Tourtise and the Hare." My struggling student started drawing almost immediately, without complaint or hesitancy--and when I asked him about it, he accurately described his pictures to me. I showed the drawings to his Korean teacher, Vicky, and she was as impressed as I was. "It's because of you," Vicky said.

There were other exciting events this week, as well: My pre-K and kinder students have started a program to teach them how to read and my kinders are super-excited and ready for it. I can't wait to teach them! I was able to counsel two boys in my EX 1 class about their behavior--one who felt devasted that he flunked a spelling test and the other who was too proud that he had aced it. "Come here, Alex," I told the second boy. "I'm gonna teach you a new word. It's called 'humble.' It means that you don't get excited when you win. Don't say, 'Oh, look at me! I won, I won! I passed! Yay!"

I began to notice what impact I really had and how much I've already acclamated to life here at Apple Tree. By the time Friday rolled around, I had this settled peace from God that I am where I should be. My interactions with the teachers this week further affirmed my place in the school. I never had a second chance to discuss the issue further with Jack, but I began to consider his firm advice. Did I really want to start over?

Thursday afternoon, Andy's email arrived. "What would switching to another hagwon do for you?" he asked. "If you're moderately happy in the situation you're in, I would stay remain at the school." He went on about my having to adjust to something all over again, were I to move, and mentioned the thought that these sort of problems would follow me even to the new place. I wouldn't really gain anything by leaving. "If you're happy, stay happy," he cautioned.

I smiled as I read through Andy's words of advice, thankful for his perspective; his message resonated with my heart as I pondered it. By this time, I was sure he was right. "You might laugh at this," I warned him in my reply, "but God used your email to confirm that this is exactly where I need to be." Briefly, I told him how I had arrived at this conclusion. I mentioned how Jack had "echoed" the same advice as Andy--"that a hagwon is a hagwon is a hagwon" and that there'd be no real advantage to me in such an identical situation. It was settled, then: I would stay. "I'll text my friend," I wrote Andy, "and tell her thanks but no thanks."

Another weagukin friend of mine offered a bit of direction this week as well. She suggested I go into the journalism/newspaper business. "Education is a wooly mammoth," she said, "and unless you're at it for years and years, you're just plucking one hair." I told her that was one of my frustrations about teaching, especially in Korea--ineffectiveness. When I confessed to being an English major and to having a desire to write, she went on with some career advice. "Have a goal that you want to stay in Korea for four years. Start looking for other opportunties in Korea because for people like us they are out there. Definitely stay at your hagwon until February [when your contract is up]," she asserted. "But if you're sure you want to be a writer, start applying for copy editing jobs. [Collect a portfolio and s]how them that you've done your homework."

I pondered her suggestions. It's an appealing vocation, certainly geared more towards my field of study than teaching. And Koreans, especially those businessmen who run an English newspaper, are always looking for bright young men and women with a passion for writing and language. There would certainly be no lack of work. It's a good way to gain more international experience, my friend reminded me. It wouldn't be a hagwon, it would keep me in Korea if I so desired, and it might get my foot in the door for better writing jobs. It's definitely worth considering. I haven't thought of what the next step should be after my contract ends in February, but guaranteed the LORD will be there when it comes.