A CRADLE

Our recent trip to the Philippines reminded us, not that we had forgotten, that we are right where God wants us to be: in Asia, with Korea as our base. It was a trip of confirmation and affirmation. After we landed in Incheon airport, driving home, I felt like I was home. After years of being in liminal space, this was a welcome emotion. Feeling grateful and grounded, we hosted friends in Korea at our house for the Christmas holidays, which was the first Christmas since 1976.

Now that we have most of our furniture and essential household needs in place, we feel settled. My wife feels at home, so I am wise enough to follow her lead.  During our time in the Philippines, I shared the name of our home—a place to behold and be held—with Ruthie and Joey. After listening contemplatively, Ruthie saw an image of a rocking cradle where the infant’s eye and the parents’ eye meet. The gentle image of rocking evoked and added to the playful note of a warm and tender gaze.

A day ago, as we were zooming with our faithful intercessor for over a decade, I shared that our desire is to carry with us the image and embodiment of “cradle” wherever we go. One might say, there is the physical cradle in Yangpyeong, and the portable cradle when we travel. The mystical and unitive experience of being seen by God and seeing God, albeit dimly, and the reality of Christ in the world are undoubtedly the first steps toward living and living rightly.

So how do we experience such a union? Thomas Merton offers his wisdom, “The answer is, by faith, and this means not simply by an intellectual assent to certain authoritative dogmatic propositions, but, more than that, by the commitment of our whole self and of our whole life to the reality of the presence of Christ in the world.“ I am glad that Merton does not undermine dogmas and certain authoritative belief propositions, but it is decisively more in Merton’s fertile mind. Pursuing and aligning with the reality of the presence of Christ in this world is experiential and maturing faith at work. To pursue and align, we are first invited to see Christ and Christ at work in this world.

It is clear in my mind that in order for us to take “cradle” wherever we go, we first have to experience a cradle in our lives. Must I say that I love the image of a rocking cradle, so whimsical and exciting? And yet so helpless, dependent, and needy? It is not unlike being poor in spirit, which has been a learning theme in the Philippines. My soul finds solace because God does and will not require strength, perfection, and resolve. Only the admission that I am helpless and needy. ..That is where God is. That is who God is.

Thus, the image of a cradle is not about fantasized tenderness or ignorance of one’s desperation. What if I could offer that space as a gift to those we meet and interact with? I see the finish line of my study at the School of Spiritual Direction. Even months ago, I wasn’t quite sure whether I wanted to avail myself of one-on-one spiritual direction sessions, but as I meet regularly with three directees each month, I know I want to extend that space to those God has prepared. As I am being cradled, I desire to offer that cradle space to others.

WILD GEESE

You do not have to be good.
You do not have to walk on your knees
For a hundred miles through the desert, repenting.
You only have to let the soft animal of your body
love what it loves.
Tell me about despair, yours, and I will tell you mine.
Meanwhile the world goes on.
Meanwhile the sun and the clear pebbles of the rain
are moving across the landscapes,
over the prairies and the deep trees,
the mountains and the rivers.
Meanwhile the wild geese, high in the clean blue air,
are heading home again.
Whoever you are, no matter how lonely,
the world offers itself to your imagination,
calls to you like the wild geese, harsh and exciting --
over and over announcing your place
in the family of things.

Mary Oliver

Oliver reminds us that nature is a tireless, patient teacher. “The soft animal” of our bodies’ loving what it loves is an instinctual, visceral pursuit—meaning what cannot not pursue what we love, albeit partially and imperfectly. If we learn to lean into that, there is animal-like instinctual wisdom and imagination.

Loving what we love is like going home, a home to our true selves. This love, in the end, reflects all-encompassing, unconditional love of God. As we are and meant to be what we love, going home means discerning what we love, which was already given. Additionally, loving what we love offers clues and pieces of the puzzle that help us understand how to live our lives, unrepeatably unique to ourselves. Love is our destination and the only rite of passage toward home. Because we pursue what we love, we experience a range of emotions, including despair, loneliness, harshness, and excitement, all wrapped up in one. Loving what we love announces our place in the family of things, according to Oliver. That is how we belong in the world.

The sun, the rain, the prairies, the trees, and the wild geese all embody and understand “despair, lonely, harsh, and exciting” facets of our lives. It is almost as if nature is whispering or sometimes loudly declaring to us that everything is normal, everything belongs. The word “meanwhile” is a subtle yet stark reminder that the world is happening all around us, serving as an invitation to pay attention.

After returning home from our recent trip to the Philippines, my heart kept returning to the tender shared moments at Coffee Keeper. As the Christ in me witnessed Christ in others in poverty of heart and mind, I marveled at the different shades of God’s goodness and mercy. There were all these emotions: joy, excitement, despair, loneliness, harshness, and hope. We were all on the same yet different journeys of going home, like wild geese.

The poverty of heart and mind is a gift from God. As it is the recognition of our desperate void, the emptiness that can only be filled by God, the poverty is God’s way of wooing us back to God, like a mother hen ready to embrace.

A MORNING WALK

I wrote the poem below on March 10, a week before we left for the US. As our one-year stay in Malaysia was coming to a close, I took walks around our neighborhood, savoring the time we had left. I think I can remember what I felt when I wrote this. That’s what poetry does, like a song lodged in memory, frozen in time. Partly to visit our friends and partly to escape the cold in Korea, we will swing by Malaysia (and Singapore) for a month in January and February. We will be conducting a few rounds of Suji Enneagram workshops in Singapore and Malaysia. And simply to connect and cherish our time with dear friends in those lands.

My heart ached as we left the Philippines after a recent ten-day visit. We were quite busy with speaking engagements and meetings, and spent an inordinate amount of time sitting in cars due to traffic. When indoors, we relied on air conditioners all the time, even though they said it was cooler this time of year. On the contrary, I was cold most of the time indoors and looked to buy a jacket, but came up empty-handed. After swatting away and slapping a few mosquitoes, we then flew down to Davao City in Mindanao (for the first time). Then there were durian parties, I mean feasts, twice. The second time was one in the morning when a friend of our hosts brought durians from her farm. After traveling back to our small inn, since the inn wouldn't allow durians on the property, we huddled outside by the parking lot and devoured durians (speaking for myself) and went to bed full of durian in my stomach.

While in Davao City, specifically in Tagum, we visited a local cafe, Coffee Keeper, owned and run by a pastor's brother, and held a short retreat. My wife led a time of reflection and sharing. My tears flowed freely as I listened to a small group of people share what they heard from God. They represented those who were poor in spirit and pure in heart. I sensed God’s heavy, happy presence, delighting in each of us. Our hosts, Pastors Ruthie and Joey, envision training at the grassroots level to foster a spirituality that combines contemplation and action. As they expressed a desire for partnership, we shared with them that we are ready to help and assist.

The owner invited me behind the counter and gave me a privilege to handbrew coffee for our friends

Time in Malaysia is coming to an end, for now,
what was once strange became familiar, mundane
lazy morning with motorbikes making the loudest sound
with unmistakably dull whizzing city sound in the background
but the undisturbed sky majestically boasts its signature blue with cotton cumulus clouds
reminding the city dwellers to look up occasionally
never without demands, if in need of courage, inspiration, and imagination.

It must be time for school
while I hear no birds calling
I hear children whistling and chirping from near and far
joyful and excited notes
replacing the morning birds of all kinds
moms busy saying goodbyes and sending them off to school
and the world so they can learn to fly on their own.

I too was once a chirper, eager to test my wings
fell flat many times
simple-minded, forgetful enough to keep trying
because I knew I could fly
with sky as a friend.

WHAT IFS

We are currently in Davao City in the southern Philippines (Mindanao), visiting Ruthie and Joey’s church and their family. We have been asked to facilitate a few workshops and attend some of the family and church’s milestone celebrations. When we told some of our friends in Manila that we would be visiting Davao City, the first thing they told us to do was to eat durians. We are happy to escape the cold in Korea and wear flip flops and shorts all the time. We will fly back this Friday and spend Christmas for the first time since 1976 in Korea.

I wrote the above poem on August 14. I do not recall the specific context, except that our grandson was born on August 11. What I vaguely remember is rumination on light and darkness, life and death. So, I started with the last stanza and worked my way back, expanding it as I went.

What if colors have sounds
what if wind has facial expressions
what if dogs can speak
what if four seasons become one monotonous season?

What if there is only one kind of everything, including us
what if there is no history, the story of everything, both hidden and revealed
what if there is no word for the future
what if there is no access to the present?

What if change never happens
what if we could not travel
what if we are stuck where we were born
what if when we feel like we are flying, we are actually being carried?

What if sadness is beauty, and beauty exists because of terror
what if anger is wisdom, and wisdom to discern a way forward
what if pain is glory, and the crown of glory can be worn through death
what if joy is a clue and key to our true being?

What if tears are windows to our souls
what if smiles can melt away fears and hatreds
what if laughter is the sacred act of letting go and letting in
what if the combination of smile and tears forms the rare ecstasy, a doorway into heaven?

What if life is not light
what if death is not darkness
what if life and death are the same
what if we are already one with the One and with all?

HUMOUR

HUMOUR
is a disguised form of spiritual discipline: an art form dedicated to the never-ending multi-contextual and multivalent nature of reality. A sense of humour tells us that whatever context we might have arranged for ourselves, there is always another context that makes our particular context absurd. Absurdity is the subversion of my present too-narrow belief and my too-narrow sense of my self: my appreciation of a suddenly revealed absurdity tells me, even in the midst of laughter, that I am willing to learn. Humour is my saviour. Shared humour equally appreciated, helps to save us both, shared humour tells us we are on the edge of discovering or seeing something new again, together.

…….

Humour at its best is the passing on of happiness, the natural overflow of felt joy, the ability to lift another’s spirits: one person laughing contagiously, or when we are lonely or alone, a sudden jolly arrival of companionable travellers, sweeping us up and on in the joy of communal bandinage.

Humour can be both a personal and a communal gift: a lifting of the spirits that allows us to look down on our previous commitment to a necessary glumness and see just how much of that shadowed, narrow melancholy was of our own making, how much we refused to get over ourselves, how much we refused to be humiliated in instructive ways; to see or hear things new and surprising about the world and about ourselves - how much we refused to come out and meet the merciful, subversive, humiliating richness of our multi-contextual world that refuses and always has refused, our every, sober, puritanical no-nonsense attempt to pin it down.

David Whyte

This week, I decided to feature David Whyte’s short essay on humour. (Out of six paragraphs, I am highlighting three above: the first and the last two.) It is packed with insights and reflections that are worth pondering in this season. Somehow, we are taught to embrace seriousness (what Whyte calls “narrow melancholy or puritanical” as a virtue in most spiritual traditions. Serious learning can happen through play, humour, or happiness.

I concur with Whyte that humour reveals one’s penchant for learning. Humour is a merciful, humiliating teacher that exposes one’s shallow, narrow, and absurdities of perceived reality. It is merciful because it hits us when we are least guarded, hopelessly trying to defend our myopia and parochialism. If contemplation is “any way one has of penetrating illusions and touching reality,” according to Parker Palmer, then humour cracks open one’s illusions and uncovers new and surprising reality, which always has been.

And to share humour in communities and/or with family and friends is one of life’s richest treasures. Since learning is a lifelong process, we should all make generous room for humour. “The passing on of happiness, the natural overflow of felt joy,” as fellow pilgrims nourish and uplift our human souls like no other.

Humour is endowed with a gift from above to open up all the portals of learning, exposing and addressing all our excuses and refusals to see and know. I can honestly say that I cannot do this serious work alone, but only with communities that are willing to learn, unlearn, and relearn.

INVITATION

Invitation

Oh do you have time
to linger
for just a little while
out of your busy

and very important day
for the goldfinches
that have gathered
in a field of thistles

for a musical battle,
to see who can sing
the highest note,
or the lowest,

or the most expressive of mirth,
or the most tender?
Their strong, blunt beaks
drink the air

as they strive
melodiously
not for your sake
and not for mine

and not for the sake of winning
but for sheer delight and gratitude –
believe us, they say,
it is a serious thing

just to be alive
on this fresh morning
in the broken world.
I beg of you,

do not walk by
without pausing
to attend to this
rather ridiculous performance.

It could mean something.
It could mean everything.
It could be what Rilke meant, when he wrote:
You must change your life.

Mary Oliver

This tender but serious invitation could change our lives. It has changed my life. This was one precise reason why we decided to settle in Yangpyeong, closer to nature’s spectacle and wonder, not that nature showcases for my sake. Nature simply does what nature is, and the only way we can participate is to linger and pay attention. The reality is that it is happening around us all the time and everywhere, out of “sheer delight and gratitude,” not to lose sight of the fact that we live in a broken world.

Over the weekend, we drove into the city to enjoy the mild late autumn weather and spend time outdoors. After meandering ten thousand steps in the historic part of the city, we found a tiny, independent bookstore tucked away from the main street. As my wife’s twinkling eyes met mine, full of curiosity, we decided to step inside. The bookstore was converted from a more than a hundred-year-old Hanok (Korean traditional house), which was approximately 50 square meters in size. As we were leaving, the owner approached us and asked, “Are you here for the exhibit?” “No,” we replied. The truth was that we did not see the exhibit sign outside. He then sheepishly wondered whether we would be interested in meeting the artist. Curious, we both said, “Yes.” The artist, Park, recently spent two years on a remote island called Udo, desperately trying to find her own artistic flow. She had us enter the makeshift dark room and listen to an audio recording that mimicked the Udo storm that changed her life. After ten minutes, she joined us in the tiny dark room and explained the painting right in front of us. I knew my wife was deeply moved, as was I, as her sharing reflected some of our most profound spiritual discoveries as well.

She “lingered” and accepted the gift of nature and discovered herself in the making. She recalled a storm that stopped all the ferries and boats for days, and how she found herself in isolation. She began to see how she was, trying to fit in and paint what others wanted from her rather than painting what flowed out of her. She learned the hard lesson of letting go during two years of isolation, which required a great deal of courage. She was humble enough to share with us that she is still on the journey. She thanked us for our attentive listening. She asked at one point, smiling, “How are you listening to me so deeply?” We thanked her and congratulated her for her courage and dedication. One of her signature paintings from the isolation period is featured above, titled Freedom of Isolation.

Her life has changed ever since she accepted the invitation, an invitation to linger in isolation, among birds, ocean, wind, and even storms. Interweaving Oliver’s poem and the artist Park, I wonder if “sheer delight and gratitude” in us has something to do with the invitation to change our lives. Lastly, I salute Oliver, quoting Rilke as if to accentuate that perennial spiritual tradition continues from one generation to the next…

THANK YOU

December crept up on us this year, with major moves from Malaysia to the US and Korea. I realize I will be spending Christmas in Korea for the first time since 1976… Here in Korea, December is obvious everywhere. The lushness of summer greens and vibrant fall hues is fading quickly, giving way to shades of grey, soon to be monochromatic wonder or dread (depending on one’s mood). The tall, blue autumn skies are gradually being replaced by duller colors, seeming closer, as if even the skies are huddling together to stay warm and keep us warm. The evergreen pine trees don’t look as green as they used to. Even in Yangpyeong, the red and green of holiday lights and familiar music fill the air, though less commercialized.

This morning, as I walked over to the kitchen and rolled up the screen shade to greet the day, I saw an elegant and fearless white heron far away, gliding at my eye level, and eventually perched on the top of a tree. I stopped rolling the screen and watched. I thought to myself, the effortless wonder is why we are here. As I was driving down our steep hill on route to a café, I saw a family of cats and kittens, all six of them. Once house pets and now wild, they looked like they had not seen any humans and were in guardian mode until I drove by. I remember the cautious and curious eyes on one of them this morning.

By the end of this year, I will have kept this blog alive for six years. What I thought would be a one-year sabbatical practice has turned into a weekly rhythm and discipline of sharing my reflections, musings, and questions. It is a rhythm and discipline that has benefitted me immensely, and I would like to continue. Thank you for reading and interacting with me. It gives me life that someone is reading and resonating with what I am writing. It is also here that I began to discover my passion and desire to write, in line with my whole being.

As is an annual tradition, I will set aside the month of December to highlight some of my favorite poems and a few poems I have written this year. Poetry, to me, serves as a living spring for sapiential seeing and living. As a bastion of human spiritual wisdom, poetry offers yet another layer of wisdom—“to tell all the truth, but tell it slant,” to borrow the words of Emily Dickinson. Mystery can be violated if communicated clearly and directly. As I grow older, I find myself journeying from certainties or the need for certainties to beholding wonder, mystery, contradictions, and even absurdities. Poetry has a knack for preserving mystery, wonder, and contradictions as they are without needing to clarify, categorize, and force certainty. In this vein, nature is poetry in motion, possessing an unmatched capacity to hold contradictions, mystery, and wonder. Let’s lean on Thomas Merton, “The language of mystics, in short, is always poetic and claims plenty of license for paradox in dealing freely with symbols, sweeping them far outside the limits of their own capacity to convey a meaning.”

As roughly one-third of the Bible is poetry, poetry connects our story with the stories of our faith fathers and mothers, without demanding answers. As “conversations” take place between their stories and ours, we feel that we are not alone, affirmed, and inspired. In fact, our lives, too, are living poetry in motion, expressing each of our unique lives in ways that we only can and should. As we celebrate the birth of Christ in our midst, let us also celebrate each of our births, which are given to us to find God and to be in union with God.

WORSHIP

A dear friend of mine visited over the weekend. Today would mark nine months after his wife’s passing. My wife and I knew his wife well, as they would invite us over for meals whenever we visited Korea, which was too many to count. My wife prepared a thoughtful and delicious home-cooked meal for our friend. As we are settling into our new place, this was the first “full-course” meal she has prepared. After the meal, I felt like we were finally settling down and taking root. There is sacredness in doing the mundane work of preparing meals.

My friend has been grieving well and with the kind of openness and vulnerability that is rare in the Korean context, touching many people’s lives. As everyone’s grief journey is unique, his personal story is met with the universal story of the human journey’s particularities. The connection between what is personal and what is universal is what makes us human, deeply individual but also profoundly communal.

I knew my friend was a coffee enthusiast, just like me. Since my neighborhood is filled with cafes—ranging from large, commercial spots capable of serving hundreds of people to tiny hole-in-the-wall shops—I told my friend I would take him to the best and my favorite one. Clara Coffee and Rice Cake is my go-to place, owned and operated by a devout Catholic barista. Clara, her baptismal name, is a slim, petite woman who always wears a mask and an apron. She wears black Skechers shoes, probably because she’s on her feet from opening until closing. Everything about her outfit and the tiny café she manages feels right. There’s no indoor seating, with a ceiling high enough to touch if I stretch my arms. The only seating is outside—nothing fancy, but the one and only table always has a fresh bouquet in the middle, with a bench facing the busy street. It’s perfect for people watching when the weather’s warm, but not today.

There is often a long line of people waiting, spilling into the street. During the weekend, I don’t even try to go to the shop since I know there will be too many fans. But we were there on Monday. It so happened that my friend was wearing a cross necklace he picked up from Assisi decades ago. Anybody well-versed would know it belongs to the Franciscan Order. When we entered the shop, I greeted her, and her smile was evident even behind the mask. “Annyeong haseo.” “I brought my friend, who is a coffee aficionado. I told him that this is the best coffee in Yangpyeong,” I said as a matter of factly and as sincerely as I could. She smiled shyly, but her enthusiastic response was aimed at the necklace my friend was wearing as she recognized the unique cross right away. I knew then that, as passionate as she is about making the best coffee, her devotion lies elsewhere.

Not that I needed my friend to validate Clara’s coffee, my friend was profoundly inspired by how she went about preparing each cup. I had known that and admired how she beats to her own drum. She moves like a gentle flowing river, never hurried and never wasting a movement. My friend later told me it was a form of worship. I could not agree with him more. There is sacredness in her ordinary task of making coffee.

The third time was the charm. On the same day, I thought about taking my friend to a local organic strawberry farm. We were there the day before, only to be pampered by the mother of our mutual acquaintance. The next morning, we swung by again, only to be greeted by the father this time, who invited us to stay on. We politely declined and pivoted to the Clara Coffee. Hours later, we were back at the farm. I wasn’t sure if I could remember the farmer since we met only once. I was pleasantly surprised she remembered my wife and me from more than three years ago when we first visited the farm. She made such a strong impression on me that I wrote about meeting her on April 26, 2022.

The host was a petite lady who, without being asked, told us she had just turned 50 this year, yet she had a commanding presence. Her straight posture could pass for being a 20-year-old. Her shoes told me right away her work is demanding, while her glowing face told us a different story. She donned a straw hat and a pastel-colored scarf around her neck, wore a dress, but underneath the dress was a pair of long pants with a light down jacket. I momentarily wondered about the purpose of the dress she was wearing. But what do I know? The wondering went away as quickly as it came to me and never became a matter of distraction again as she gave us a short tour of the farm. The light down jacket she was wearing signaled that she must have been there since the early cold morning, as the temperature difference was well over 30 degrees between the low and the high. When we arrived, it was still warm enough to wear a light long-sleeve shirt. (April 26, 2022, entry)

She was the one who taught me how to worship God by looking at the peas on her farm.

One night, she decided she would sketch the familiar peas as she likes to draw. She relayed how she was overwhelmed by their exquisite shapes, colorful textures, and finer details if we linger long enough to observe. As she carefully observed and enlarged the peas into a painting, she recognized the incredibly complex beauty of the peas that simply could not be captured in a mere photo. Finally, she broke out in full “doxology” toward the Creator of the breathtaking wonder of peas. She told herself how she would go back to the farm the next day and admire everything she sees.

She is still passionate about farming and caring for the earth. We merely wanted to say hello, but she insisted on serving a “simple” lunch. The simple lunch turned out to be Samgyupsal (pork belly) barbecue with fresh rosemary leaves, nonchalantly picked, and also with other vegetables right from the farm. They were served with gochujang sauce seasoned with strawberries and assorted Kimchi. In 2022, we met for four hours, and she spoke for more than three and a half hours. Yesterday, we were with her for three hours, and she spoke for more than two and a half. I did not mind listening to her at all.

As God’s creation, we are meant to worship. Worship awakens and connects our inner divinity with God, the Creator. We worship through creativity, passion, craft, and simply being ourselves. We worship through our hands, body, and soul. Worship lifts earth’s ordinaries to touch heaven and brings heaven down to earth to move our being. Indeed, “In Him, we move and have our being.” As such, worship is not and cannot be confined to churches and cathedrals alone, but plainly exists in everyday creation affairs. I know because I have seen it. I have seen my wife worship through her hospitable hands and heart. I have seen my friend worship, courageously traversing the land of grief, confusion, and hope. I have seen Clara worship through her airy movements as she creates an elixir called coffee. I have seen the farmer worship through her care of the earth and plants. I also witnessed myself worship alongside them as I observed these personal and unique expressions of worship.

A PLACE TO BEHOLD

My wife crashed after the weekend visitors left, grateful and exhausted. As a flaming introvert who needs space and alone time, she was a trooper, leaning on her strength training regimen, and a gracious hostess who provided safety and warmth to all visitors over the weekend. Though we are not even halfway settled, we have been on a roll, hosting and meeting people from Singapore to the US and Korea back to back to back.

Practically speaking, our friends brought their own bedding, sheets, and blankets, along with towels. As the anchor community for us in Korea, they also came with gifts and blessings. Some brought three different kinds of homemade Kimchi, seasonal fruits (persimmons, mandarin oranges, sweet potatoes, etc.), and gorgeous houseplants. As our place sits on the top of the hill, overlooking the small valley below, with a stream running through it, we are surrounded by layers of mountains and trees as far as the eye can see. Even then, as a reminder, it does our souls good to see and touch the greens right inside our home. We knew they would be bringing the houseplants. So, we asked them to name the houseplants they were bringing. Their names are “Daily, Here, and Now.” I have never been a plant guy, so I am on a steep learning curve to know how to take good care of them.

Our new house is a pure, generous gift from God, provided through the gracious hands of a young Korean couple. I first met the wife of this couple when she was single, over ten years ago, during my annual speaking and meeting trips to Korea. She attended my seminars over the years and sincerely absorbed the messages I shared. She even came to my speaking engagement the night before her wedding with her future husband. We kept in touch sporadically after their marriage. Then COVID hit. After hearing from God that God might be calling us to Korea—and specifically to Yangpyeong—we narrowed our search to settling down there. In spring 2021, we found an Airbnb, fell in love with the area, and invited them to visit us in Yangpyeong. After listening to how God has been leading us, they tentatively and humbly, while tearing up, asked if they could provide us with housing in Yangpyeong. They had been looking for a second home in Yangpyeong for years, and upon hearing our vision, they told us they then knew why.

Since then, they both quit their corporate jobs, realizing their souls were not thriving, and they have shifted into an e-commerce business. They are much happier and more content. Over the past five years, knowing that their work situation had changed, I have asked them twice to reconsider their generous offer to provide us with a home in Yangpyeong. Both times, they responded with firmer convictions and told us how strongly they felt God was guiding them. As we were having lunch today, they shared how awe-inspiring this whole journey meant for them. Their vision, as shared with ours, has always been that our home be a haven and healing space for pilgrims on the road. Here we are today, counting our blessings and pinching ourselves to wake from the blissful numbness of this unfolding story.

Unintentionally, we have been on a roll naming things. Our new house is called “A Place to Behold,” thanks to our friends from the US. Now we have named three houseplants. When we bought our used hybrid 4-wheel drive SUV, our Singaporean friends called it “Shadowfax,” after Gandalf’s horse. And so far, Shadowfax has lived up to its fame and name. Tomorrow, we will return the car we've used for years during every visit to Korea back to our good friends. Their son named their car Gugu because it reminded him of a small pigeon, especially because of its color and size. Gugu has served us well, and now we’re moving on to Shadowfax.

If fear and doubt were the dominant emotions soon after we landed in Korea, now gratitude and hope have replaced them as my main emotions. As I sit with all feelings without judgment, inner narration, or over-dissecting, at the heart of gratitude and hope lies the multiple communities we belong to. Fear and doubt were fundamentally associated with being alone, isolated, and irrelevant. After all, we left the US ministry context we knew for more than 35 years. Gratitude and hope are directly and undeniably associated with multiple communities we belong to and find life in. The friends back in the US represent our faithful “senders,” willing and ready to send us and release us for the service in Asia. The friends and current and future derivatives of relationships from Singapore, the Philippines, Malaysia, and Indonesia (as well as other Asian countries) represent our service focus and aspirations. The friends in Korea continue to be our anchor community, welcoming and receiving us to take root in Korea. And who knows what God has in store for us, now that I, as a river merged with the vast ocean…

WONDER AND LIGHT

Two worlds collided into one. Our friends from the US, for over forty years, rained down in Yangpyeong, not two or four, but ten of them. Now, most are gray-haired and perhaps a little more fragile in our physical abilities, and tender-hearted, they still shone the same familiar smile I am used to seeing over the decades. The unmatched fall foliage was the main draw. After they had planned separately to visit Korea, they quickly discovered that they were all converging in Korea around the same time. Taking the Spirit’s cue, I invited them to come and visit us for two days in Yangpyeong.

On the 1st day of November, we met for lunch at our favorite local farm-to-table restaurant, a table laden with main dishes and an endless array of healthy and delectable side dishes (banchan). The owner, whom I’ve come to know well, gave us the best seats. We were boisterous and free, as if we owned the place. Joy in knowing and being known is a gift from heaven, I realize once again. It was a feast for our senses and bodies. It was a feast for my soul to see all ten of them together. Later, the owner told me, “Your friendship looks special,” and I simply grinned.

An hour later, they all entered our new house after hearing how God miraculously provided it for us. To them, it confirmed our testimony as they oohed and aahed. To me, it marked a milestone and a celebration of God’s goodness and faithfulness. As we celebrate the start of a new chapter, perhaps, in some mysterious way, they needed to bless us in person. And blessings they did. Armed with anointing oil from Jerusalem that our friends from the Philippines gave us, they walked from corner to corner of every room in our house, anointed, and blessed each space. Later, they offered naming our place “A place to behold” (바라보는집)—to behold God and one another. I was reminded that beholding one another as though we are beholding God is at the heart of hospitality.

After walking the nearby water garden trail, the one stop I knew we had to make was Kwak Jiwon Bakery. I alerted Chef Lee that I would be coming with my friends from the US. Made “famous” by my blog entries, they took pictures of the bright emerald blue building that looks like a quaint European three-story house, trimmed with white French windows. While I knew Chef Lee would be at the bakery, I did not know Professor Kwak would be present. They warmly welcomed us in as expected and served us three different kinds of breads, with lotus leaf teas. As conversations flowed and some tears were shed, I could almost pinch myself since I did not imagine these two groups of friends would intersect.

A café by the Bukhan River was our gathering place the next morning. The air was crisp and deliciously cold and crystal clear. Within days, the deeper hues of fall settled in, reminding us what we had been missing and reconnecting with our roots. Nature, through the effortless gifts of sights, sounds, and smells, has a way of touching our souls. It heals, mends, and gives until we finally surrender to its embrace.

One wise friend suggested that we do group Lectio Divina at the café. I proposed Matthew 6:22-34 in The Message version. While women met and shared in a warm, cozy indoors, comfortably looking out at the majestic mountains and the serene Bukhan River, men huddled tightly together like poor beggars outdoors, trying desperately to warm ourselves. But we did not mind being outside since we wanted to feel the cold, refreshing air. Verse 22 was highlighted to me right away, “Your eyes are windows into your body. If you open your eyes wide in wonder and belief, your body fills up with light.” Wonder and belief in our eyes lead to light in our bodies. Wonder and belief leading to light made sense, as childlike wonder opens up all circuits of possibilities and beliefs, which prepares the ground for light to flood in. As nature is wonder, it is no wonder :) that light fills us in nature.

There was one other wonder. The wonder of two worlds colliding in Yangpyeong filled me with light. What were two separate worlds are now one integrated world. I could not help but chuckle, knowing our friends from the US have been to some of our intimate spots and met some of our dear friends in Yangpyeong. That is a wonder to behold.

CLOUDS

Our friends from Singapore arrived nearly a week ago, bringing a “Singapore Sling,” a signature cocktail with sweet, citrusy, and herbal flavors. Their presence has been sweet and grounding, reminding us that “the journey to heaven is heaven itself,” a powerful quote by St. Catherine of Siena. The citrusy and tangy notes awaken our senses and motivate us to stay faithful on our journey. The herbal qualities symbolize healing and therapy in our connection, enhanced by rice fields, vineyards, and cattle ranches. As we are in the process of settling in Yangpyeong, they accompanied us to Costco Korea and IKEA. They even joined us at a used car dealership, which was a fascinating experience because the process was so streamlined and efficient.

Tall October skies in Korea are unparalleled — so blue they momentarily take your breath away and evoke a collective “Ahh.” White cumulus clouds shift in size and shape, inviting us to keep our eyes open and not miss the spectacle. Occasionally, we see an impressive formation of wild geese escaping the cold for warmer weather. While my mind rushes at 100 mph trying to settle down, my eyes bask in the silent, slow, and wild transition from fall to winter. I gladly let my mind follow the feast of my eyes, as I have learned there is wisdom in the body.

As we recently discovered a Cloud Mountain Café near our Airbnb, we took our friends to the hillside café overlooking the open mountain ranges, both near and far. The foliage has not arrived yet, but the scenery was still breathtaking. More than the mountains and slow-changing colors, the blue sky engulfed everything below, reminding the earth below who the king is.

We were strolling along the picturesque walking path by the Bukhan River. The conversation was vulnerable, deep, and sacred, reminding us that the journey to heaven is heaven itself. The journey to heaven is not heaven because our experiences are heavenly, but because it teaches us what heaven is and will be, amid hardships, suffering, and joy. It is precisely because Jesus is our way. The journey itself is divine in our human form.

Right in the middle of our conversation, the silver lining in the cloud appeared, underlined with a bold shadow, almost urging us to notice. With impeccable timing, we instantly felt God’s presence and promise covering not only our conversations but also the journey we are on. Two words capture our journey in Korea so far: dramatic and generous. We have not lacked drama, with God’s goodness and faithfulness prevailing, resulting in generous, over-the-top gifts of our home and car.

Our friends’ presence also reminds us that our service focus is much larger and broader than Korea, extending across all of Asia. Their presence bears witness to God’s faithfulness and our journey to heaven.

Speaking of clouds, I want to close this week’s blog by sharing a poem from my friend, Linda Goh. She is a fellow poet in the CenterQuest Asia Poet Society. She was inspired to write the poem while visiting the Cloud Mountain Café.

Clouds

Spread across the clear blue sky
perched on the mountain top
so soft, so voluminous
so inviting

My neck craned
My eyes transfixed
Eyes and mind taking snapshots voraciously
I want to keep you forever with me.

What are you
but mere water droplets
yet so celestial
when crowded together
forming a community
reflecting the sunlight that hits you.

I’m beginning to think that
you remind me of
God’s tenderness
His playfulness
His wild imaginations
His endless possibilities

The endless meadow up in the sky
invites me to let my imaginations fly
to reflect the sunlight that hits me
They cajole, and tease anyone who cares to be free
to crane their necks
and
be whisked into
a wonderland of playfulness
into a whole new world!

FLOW

My heart sank when we entered the house our friends had secured for us. The process of finding a house was solid, as it took several months, with regular Zoom calls. Our friends visited the place and met the landlord about a month ago. Their initial feedback was that the landlord, in his early 70s, was verbose and calculating. Over the course of a month, the landlord kept changing his story to the point that we could no longer trust what he said. Still, we were willing to make it work, but deep down, something was bothering me.

Never mind the fact that the house looked different than the pictures we saw. Even the country neighborly drive to the house felt restrictive, which is the best word I can use, rather than open, spacious, and inviting. When we entered the house, the landlord was having lunch with his granddaughter, and that did not feel professional, as he knew we would be visiting for the first time. While the house was not necessarily messy, it felt old, stuffy, and dark. All the while, we were trying to see the brighter side, trying to overlook our initial unsaid feelings and concerns. The thought of breaking the contract never entered my mind.

As we were leaving, I knew I was disappointed and even discouraged. I was confused and felt stuck, which was the worst of all my emotions. A week later, I conversed with our friends and exchanged similar findings, which led to canceling the contract. It turned out that the landlord was breaking several contractual agreements, so it made it easy for our friends to break the contract. I remember sighing a huge relief.

Less than three days later, we found a house online, viewed it, and signed the contract. The process was swift and painless. At one point, the landlord said, “Thank you.” Even the real estate agent overseeing the rental said, “Welcome to the neighborhood. You will love this neighborhood.” “Thank you,” I responded, sensing genuine warmth and gratitude. I then told them that we know this neighborhood well since it was the first Yangpyeong area I fell in love with more than five years ago. “I do not need navigation to drive around the neighborhood,” I said confidently.

The house we will be moving into is a brand-new house, built less than a year ago. The landlord had been living there occasionally with a minimal footprint and belongings. It sits on a high hill impressively overlooking everything below, the valleys and even the small creek running in the not too distant, as one can still hear the water flowing. Of course, what this also means is that during winter, I need to be cognizant of spreading road salt before the snowfall. The landlord kindly explained how to salt the road leading up to our place, but my Southern California upbringing ignorance did not understand what I was to process. Thus, it remains homework to solve before the snowfall. And I just watched the news last night that it may snow in some high mountain regions in Korea as the temperature plummeted today.

Before our friends broke the contract with the first house, I muttered a complaint to God that our hearts need to be at peace as we host people and create a hospitable space. It was clear in my mind that I was not at peace with the first house, so I simply asked God to do something. Then the second house came into our purview, and now we are days away from moving into the new place. In hindsight, God protected us and also provided something above and beyond our expectations. Elohim Shomri and Jehovah Jireh!

The timeless biblical truth of “blessed to be a blessing” reminds me that blessing is a flow. We receive, so we let it flow out of us freely, to give. The first landlord, in a sense, refused to bless us, only taking more than what was rightfully his. The second landlord (and the real estate agent) is blessing us, eager to go above and beyond to make us feel at home. Our friends are a steady testimony of God’s faithfulness and blessing.

We are ready to let it flow, to become the conduit of flow. There is a striking contrast between two famous bodies of water in Israel: The Dead Sea and the Sea of Galilee. The Dead Sea is “dead” because it refuses to flow and only receives. The Sea of Galilee teems with life because it simply acts as a conduit. Both are fed by the same source, the River Jordan, but one outlet is blocked, and the other is open.

The vision of hospitality is a flow.
Actually, the vision of life is a flow.
To live is to flow.
To flow is to live.

FEAR

Fear

It is said that before entering the sea
a river trembles with fear.

She looks back at the path she has traveled,
from the peaks of the mountains,
the long winding road crossing forests and villages.

And in front of her,
she sees an ocean so vast,
that to enter
there seems nothing more than to disappear forever.

But there is no other way.
The river can not go back.

Nobody can go back.
To go back is impossible in existence.

The river needs to take the risk
of entering the ocean
because only then will fear disappear,
because that's where the river will know
it's not about disappearing into the ocean,
but of becoming the ocean.

A few days after arriving in Korea, I read the poem below by Khalil Gibran, titled Fear. This poem served to continue my mulling regarding O’Donohue’s “threshold” post on October 1. In recent years, the image of the river has been a constant source of inspiration and imagination. O’Donohue’s Fluent speaks of desiring to live like a river, “carried by the surprise of its own unfolding.”

Gibran’s mention of the “path” as a “long winding road” suggests the idea of surprises and discoveries along the way. Then the river is shocked by the sheer size of the “vast” ocean and trembles with fear. As much as I appreciate and love open space, I can identify with the word “vast” today. In some ways, I miss the “long winding road” or the path I have traveled and am familiar with. Now that we are here in Korea (Asia), it feels vast and open, evoking a sense of fear in me. I can picture myself as the trembling river, facing the vast ocean before me, breathless. During a bewildering moment, I wonder if I can ever go back and linger longer in the memories of the enchanting forests and villages.

Gibran switches to an emphatic language, “But, . . . the river can not go back,” and shifts the very imagination and attention to us, “nobody can go back.” As the fear dissipates, which can only arrive after letting the path take one to the ocean, the discovery of a new season of becoming opens up. As a river, becoming the ocean is an inevitable destiny. Resistance is futile.

In the face of the “impossible,” the only way to move forward is to “take the risk.” Without taking the risk, there is no disappearance of fear. Fear will continue to loom large. But as the river cannot go back, taking the risk really means to trust the flow of the river, and not fight the natural course of the flow, into the engulfing mouth of the ocean. However big and mighty the rivers are, compared to the ocean, it is only a drop in a bucket.

I love the first phrase, “It is said. . . .” It is as if Gibran is garnering all the perennial, trusted wisdom as his ally to invite readers to listen, and listen carefully. Gibran succeeds in getting my attention. Humility is also at play as the recipients of wisdom. Perennial wisdom is always humble and shy, inviting people to consider and seek, and never demanding or forceful. Receiving the timeless wisdom also requires humility. Humility recognizes humility. Today, I am at the feet of Gibran and drink his words deeply.

THIS SIDE OF THE WORLD

What have I done? Was I delusional? Somewhere over the Pacific Ocean, my heart sank as these questions came flooding at me like surprising, uninvited guests. There was no rhyme or reason for the crashing guest. Rather than quickly dismissing the thought, I stayed with it and acknowledged the dreadful emotion. I knew I could have easily rationalized how God led every step of the way for the last six plus years, leading to the one-way flight to Korea, with most of our earthly belongings. But I decided not to.

About twenty minutes later, the rude guest left my heart’s room as if a distant memory. While still puzzled, I was glad I didn’t ignore them. We missed our connecting flight from San Francisco because our flight from Los Angeles didn’t arrive in SF on time. The layover would have been an action-packed fifty minutes anyway, but we’ve flown the same route many times and never missed a connection—until now. Also, I’ve always managed to get my go-to Gyudon bowl from SFO, to my wife’s mild fluster, adding to the adrenaline rush. During a flight to SFO, I was able to reroute through Narita, Japan, with a five-hour layover, arriving late at night in Korea. I didn’t mind the Narita layover since I knew my stomach would be happy with ramen, udon, and curry at the Air Nippon Airways lounge. And I savored washing all that down with cold Asahi Beer.

A day later, we successfully made our way to Gapyeong Airbnb, where we stayed before without encountering another hiccup. The only challenge was to fit four large suitcases plus two small ones into a small sedan that someone has graciously loaned us to use. We planned to stay at Gapyeong for two weeks until we move into our new home at Yangpyeong in mid-October. Halfway settled with familiarity intact, we quickly shopped for food for our sustenance as well as for hosting. This week also happens to be a golden holiday season, Chuseok (Korean mid-autumn harvest festival), as we expect to receive a few guests.

After taking care of our groceries, we made our way to Café Sinhari 1955. We had anticipated being here for many months, as we had harvested many fond memories. One picture I took a year ago remained as my virtual background for all my Zoom meetings. As soon as we started driving to the café, we ran into an apple orchard owner right next to our place (I shared about last fall). Though his back was turned, I noticed the posture and told my wife, “Here is the orchard owner.” As I was driving by him, I rolled down the window and greeted him. “Annyeong haseyo!” As our eyes locked, he returned with a big, happy smile, displaying his white, straight teeth, and asked how long we would be in the area. After hearing “Only two weeks,” He quickly told us the apples would not be harvested until early November. Even before he finished his sentence, I interrupted him and assured him that we would be back in early November to pick up a box or two. His gloved hands were holding five apples that he had just picked. “I want to see how they are ripening,” he said to us. And handed over three apples without missing a beat. “Here, try them as the first fruit of the season.” Feeling grateful, we received the apples with a big grin on our faces and promised him we would be back.

Less than five hundred meters away is the café. With the inner gratitude channel wide open, after driving through a narrow, windy farming and cattle land, we arrived at the café. I would not fault anyone for one’s failure to imagine a café after that less-than-spectacular country drive. The café owner (who is the daughter) spotted us and let out in a shouting tone, “Oh, hello, so good to see you!” She followed, “My parents were just talking about you the other day. And they were wondering whether you would come back.” With my heart gladdened by the genuine welcome and longing vibe, I returned with a warm smile. She then spent the next five minutes calling and looking for her parents, putting her business on hold. We finally spotted them behind the café in their well-manicured garden, big enough to require a yeoman’s work. After hearing our voices, out sprang the father in a baseball cap, jeans, and work boots. He was tending to his impressive array of vegetables, from sweet potatoes to peppers to napa cabbage to radishes. The familiar smile followed.

Our conversations flowed like old friends, exchanging more than a few pleasantries. These familiar faces and relationships represent the kind of fertile welcome that is ordinary and effortless, much like the nature surrounding us. This welcome was the icing on the cake, as our friends from Korea, Malaysia, Singapore, and the Philippines congratulated us, crossing the Pacific Ocean, finally being “on this side of the world,” as someone wrote us.

“COME AND SEE”

By the time you read this post, we will have landed in Korea, dazed with jetlag, but hopefully in bed. Not to sound too dramatic, this post stands as the culmination of the last five years of reflecting and writing. Flying over the Pacific Ocean is a good symbol for our threshold crossing. A new chapter awaits us. As always, thank you for reading.

Again the next day after John stood, and two of his disciples;
And looking upon Jesus as he walked, he saith, Behold the Lamb of God!
And the two disciples heard him speak, and they followed Jesus.
Then Jesus turned, and saw them following, and saith unto them, What seek ye? They said unto him, Rabbi, (which is to say, being interpreted, Master,) where dwellest thou?
He saith unto them, Come and see. They came and saw where he dwelt, and abode with him that day: for it was about the tenth hour.

John 1:35-39, KJV

During one of the recent group spiritual guidance sessions, we did Lectio Divina on the passage above. After I shared my reflection, someone in the group mentioned the word, abide, which is more often translated as remain. The word lingered for a few days afterward.

The word abide was the favorite of the Apostle John, appearing eight times in John 15 alone. (Out of 120 total occurrences of the word in the New Testament, John penned more than half of the total in the Gospel of John and his epistles.) As the Spirit descended and abode upon Christ (John 1:32-33), John urges us to abide (remain) with Christ. This rich language channels the very heart of the union, which is the main thrust of the Gospel of John. To abide means to be in union with Christ and the Triune God.

Before I considered the invitation to abide, my initial felt invitation was to “come and see.” The words “look and see” are the most repeated action verbs in the passage above. There is the action to look upon or behold, which is more equivalent to searching for awe and curiosity. Then there is seeing, first by Jesus, then by the disciples. Perhaps our seeing always follows Jesus’ seeing us first. We think we see first, but Jesus has been seeing and watching us all along. We see because Jesus saw us first.

I, too, have been doing a lot of looking, searching, for the last five-plus years. After locating Jesus, I followed Jesus as I have been accustomed to. However, in many ways, this path of followership was new to me, as my life was at a very different place. The calling to follow Jesus is not a static one but involves live interaction with my present life, making it novel and fresh every day. After the exchange of seeing, I imagined Jesus gently and plainly inviting me to “come and see.” No hesitation on the part of the disciples, as there is no hesitation on my part. What immediately follows is the scene of abiding. Incidentally, the words dwelt and abode are the same Greek word.

Concurrently, I have also been reflecting on the paragraph by John O’Donohue.

At any time you can ask yourself: At which threshold am I now standing? At this time in my life, what am I leaving? Where am I about to enter? What is preventing me from crossing my next threshold? What gift would enable me to do it? A threshold is not a simple boundary; it is a frontier that divides two different territories, rhythms and atmospheres. Indeed, it is a lovely testimony to the fullness and integrity of an experience or a stage of life that it intensifies toward the end into a real frontier that cannot be crossed without the heart being passionately engaged and woken up. At this threshold a great complexity of emotions comes alive: confusion, fear, excitement, sadness, hope. This is one of the reasons such vital crossing were always clothed in ritual. It is wise in your own life to be able to recognize and acknowledge the key thresholds; to take your time; to feel all the varieties of presence that accrue there; to listen inward with complete attention until you hear the inner voice calling you forward. The time has come to cross.

O’Donohue’s rich and wise words echo the dynamic part of following Jesus as we all face and cross the thresholds multiple times in our lives. As “it is not a simple boundary” but a “frontier that cannot be crossed without the heart being passionately engaged and woken up,” I experience every single emotion of confusion, fear, excitement, sadness, and hope.

Confusion cultivates listening to every aspect of one's inner being (body, mind, heart, and soul) and leaning into its wisdom.
Fear is the guttural call to summon courage and faith into action.
Excitement is energy to face the unknowns and uncertainties and to invite curiosity.
Sadness is the invitation to let go of the old and let in the new.
Hope is the eternal spring of goodness and mercy.

Then the “inner voice calling me forward” comes, which stands because God’s voice has been calling me, ever so patiently.

The time has come to cross, to abide.

WHERE CAN I FLEE FROM YOUR PRESENCE?

As we draw near to our departure date (Sept. 29), numerous things require our heart and mind’s attention. My wife began packing. She does not pester me to start packing. She knows I will eventually get to it in my own time. But she reminded me recently that in recent trips, I have forgotten to pack certain things or not pack enough. In the meantime, my mind and heart are all over the place. Thus, this week’s post is about my rapt in thought.

Among all the helpful names and descriptions of God, Paul Tillich’s idea of God as “the Ground of Being” has resonated with me, or should I say, grounded me in recent years, especially this week. Looking back, the ground, in a physical sense, has been shifting beneath our feet as we traveled across Asia. The thought and assurance that we are walking on and with the Ground of Being gave me comfort, knowing that I am known, like David’s question: “Where can I flee from your presence?” No matter which ground we stand on, there is God. This realization also highlighted our desire for a more permanent “ground” to stand on. Behind every experience, there is meaning. Our experiences serve as clues to uncover our true essence based on the meanings we unearth. Discovering meaning through our unique journey will continue. We are eager to settle on a more permanent ground in Yangpyeong, Korea. I am sure I will write more about this later.

I was asked to give a talk in my former organization to a small group of leaders, the missiology group. Curious, I accepted the invitation and asked, “Do you want me to prepare anything?” “No, just share your latest update and reflections,” was the reply. I ended up talking for an hour and a half, responding to thoughtful questions. After the talk, I felt honored that my years of focus and effort still had some steam left and learned that my main emphasis on formation, or contemplation, actually became a major focus within the organization. I received it as God’s way of encouraging me on the eve of our departure.

A few days later, I presented a paper over Zoom during the Asia Society for Frontier Mutualism (used to be Missiology), which just took place in Kuala Lumpur, Malaysia. As a founding member of the society, I have witnessed its transformation over the last twenty years. It has been one of the very few meetings in which I did not hold back my tendency to push the existing boundaries of missions endeavors. This was the forum in which I proposed Nouwen’s hospitality as a blueprint for missions more than fifteen years ago. I presented a paper titled “From Imago Dei to Missio Dei” more than ten years ago. They represented the early seeding years of my eventual focus on both contemplation and action. I am grateful that ASFM provided me with a safe space to speak my mind.

Besides family, my wife and I have been celebrating friendship. As we get older, our relationship with friends gets simpler. During our younger days, there were multiple layers of relationships, including friendship, which were often muddied and complexified. As those layers peel off and melt away, this season of our lives allows us to enjoy the purity and joy of friendship. Friendship has many names. Among them are depth, joy, childlikeness, acceptance, and freedom. The word childlikeness surprises me even as I write. The friendship space is safe and sacred to access the inner child in me, and radically different from other spaces enough that I do not have to work to fit into a system of expectations and proprieties. The unadulterated quality of such space is precious, and it brings me a smile as I reflect on it.     

“In the kingdom of love there is no competition; there is no possessiveness or control. The more love you give away, the more love you will have. One remembers here Dante’s notion that the secret rhythm of the universe is the rhythm of love, which moves the stars and the planets. Love is the source, center, and destiny of experience.”

Then there is love as the ultimate quality, as John O’Donohue writes in *Anam Cara: A Book of Celtic Wisdom*. This soul friendship, known as anam cara, meaning “soul friend,” creates the rhythm of love. It allows us to be part of the entire cosmos’s way of existence and experience, joining in the revolution of love and the evolution toward love. We leave behind a certain group of friends in the US and will find ourselves welcomed by a group of friends in Korea and Asia. Even then, geographical distance no longer acts as a barrier but becomes a doorway into more joy and love.

BEING A 62-YEAR-OLD

I am 62 years old and about to move our home base from the US, which I have called home since 1977, to Korea in less than two weeks. As I age and prepare to do something that raises more questions than answers, I realize anew that I got to where I am because I have been seeking deeper meaning in life. The meaning I seek is less about someone else’s interpretation and more about a meaning rooted within myself, which has always been there. I worked hard to create a space for inner seeking, and as a result, I experience far fewer distractions and noises from the outside.

The baseline modus operandi has been that God created me in God’s image and likeness. Thus, discovering how I am created is also to discover God. I experience life through my personal, subjective life, not someone else’s. Living my life is the invitation. John Calvin wrote, “Without knowledge of self there is no knowledge of God. Nearly all the wisdom we possess, that is to say, true sound wisdom consists of two parts: the knowledge of God and of ourselves.” The knowledge of self and of God is a precursor for the love of self, others (and otherness), and God. The knowledge and love of self and God are two names for the same reality.

Speaking of knowledge and love, life is not necessarily about finding the so-called “ultimate meaning” as the destination. What I learned so far is the importance of the journey itself. “All the way to heaven is heaven, because Jesus said, ‘I am the way,’ summed up by St. Catherine of Siena. The journey to heaven is heaven itself. It is the imperfect human journey touching divine heaven. This human life of the journey is heaven-inspiring, attractive, and filled with meaning, as I have witnessed among the cloud of witnesses.

Then there is health. To stay on the journey, the least we can do is take care of our bodies and health, fully aware that anything can derail us at any time. Exercising is life-giving to me. I feel alive when I sweat, hear myself breathing hard, and even in exercise-induced pain. I count my blessings for not having had any major injuries. During our year in Malaysia, my wife and I worked out regularly. My wife tells me that I am her personal trainer, which makes me proud and brings a smile. Health is one of those areas we can control, but at the same time, we cannot fully control. It requires diligence on the part we can control, humility on the part we can’t control, and gratitude for the blessings we have received. Health is not the main focus, but the journey is. Nonetheless, it is a crucial part of helping us journey well while accepting our limitations.

That word, limitations, is humbling, especially as I age. Aging is about a growing list of limitations, but at the same time, not about a lack of imagination and hope for what I can become and what I should become, discovering the image of God and God’s likeness in me.

INTRODUCING JAELEN YOONSEUL KIM

I wrote the entry below in three separate parts, days, as you can see. Since you saw my grandson’s picture last week, you might have guessed I would be writing about him this week. How can I not? Yoonseul has been the one dominant constant in the last month. :) Thank you for sharing my joy.

Jaelen Yoonseul Kim was born yesterday (August 11) to a beautiful young couple, my son, Michael, and our daughter-in-law, Gloria. The first name comes from Jae, as it was Gloria’s dad’s Korean name. It is in the past because John passed away only a few months ago after valiantly fighting against cancer. John would have been the proudest grandfather, along with me.

Michael and Gloria honored us by naming Jaelen's Korean middle name. Yoonseul (윤슬) is a pure Korean word that describes the shimmering or glistening effect on the water's surface. As a reflection of light, yoonseul, like a collection of sparkling jewels dancing on the water, is always alive, present, and faithful in reflecting the true Light. Its existence is forever connected and dependent on the Light. The first two lines of the song, A Whole New World, read, “I can show you the world, shining, shimmering, splendid.” Incidentally, one of my wife’s favorite gratitude memories is witnessing yoonseul in a vast ocean. My prayer for Yoonseul is for him to live out his shimmering identity, fully reliant on and reflective of the Light. Whenever and wherever we see yoonseul, we will be reminded to pray for my boy’s boy, Yoonseul.

A few days later, I beheld Yoonseul for the first time, as he was still in the Neonatal Intensive Care Unit for precautionary reasons because Yoonseul had been born four weeks early. Michael accompanied me into the room, filled with other NICU babies. As soon as I saw Yoonseul, tears welled up in my eyes. I saw Michael looking at Yoonseul and beyond Yoonseul to the miraculous beauty of the soul, just as I must have done when Michael was born. The initial God-ordained vision of le point vierge must be seen by others first before one realizes the true potential and calling to discover one’s own core beauty. Since Michael and I saw Yoonseul in his original beauty, we cannot unsee the vision. As the vision remains with us, it will mysteriously serve as a source of hope and inspiration for Yoonseul to live his life embracing his true essence. 

Yoonseul will learn to trust the Good as he lies in utter helplessness and vulnerability. Out of his fragile and tender state, he will become strong and independent while he keeps his heart tender and authentic. He will know Michael’s and Gloria’s voices and come to depend on them as he learns to open his ears to the distant sound of the dancing and shimmering water, knowing that there is a Voice beyond the water. His eyes will see the glistening jewels on the water and will know that Love has been looking at him as a precious jewel.

A few days ago, I took my mom to see Yoonseul for the first time. She has been struggling with memory loss, so I wasn’t sure if she would be able to piece everything together. My doubts vanished soon after we entered Michael and Gloria’s place. As soon as she laid her eyes on Yoonseul, she was fixated for the next 20 minutes and couldn’t take her eyes off him. With my mom’s eyes twinkling and her smile constant, it was as if she were enraptured in a heavenly joy. We sat her down and had her hold Yoonseul. I watched her and Yoonseul as I stood right in front of her. Suddenly, a flash of imaginative memory crossed my mind—she must have held me like that with joy in her eyes while her hands caressed every part of my tiny body as if I were the most precious thing on earth. I know that to be true because that’s how she held my boy, Michael, when he was an infant. Thus, the most enduring and endearing tradition of humanity continues—to hold and to be held. I know the image will stay with me for a long time. All thanks to Yoonseul!

DIALOGUE WITH THOMAS MERTON | PART 4

I conclude this series with the final paragraph of Merton’s journal, which crescendoed and culminated in a vision of heaven. I am indebted to Merton for articulating the pure glory of God within each of us and for inviting us all to embrace such a worthy pursuit for ourselves and others.

A pure glory of God, Jaelen Yoonseul Kim

Again, that expression, le point vierge, (I cannot translate it) comes in here. At the center of our being is a point of nothingness which is untouched by sin and by illusion, a point of pure truth, a point or spark which belongs entirely to God, which is never at our disposal, from which God disposes of our lives, which is inaccessible to the fantasies of our own mind or the brutalities of our own will. This little point of nothingness and of absolute poverty is the pure glory of God in us. It is so to speak His name written in us, as our poverty, as our indigence, as our dependence, as our sonship. It is like a pure diamond, blazing with the invisible light of heaven. It is in everybody, and if we could see it we would see these billions of points of light coming together in the face and blaze of a sun that would make all the darkness and cruelty of life vanish completely . . . I have no program for this seeing. It is only given. But the gate of heaven is everywhere.

2020
The climactic words Merton uses here are astounding: “a point of nothingness, a point of pure truth, a point or spark which belongs entirely to God.” This nothingness is everything in that it is the only thing that really matters. It is God in us, love in us. It can never be distorted and tainted. Not even our mind or will. Nobody can take away this reality of original and ancient belonging to God. But it is “secret” and hidden and thus in need of discovery and cherishing. Awareness is what separates those who know God is in them from those who do not. And this awareness is given as a gift from God, not taught or manufactured. At the same time, recognizing illusions as illusions and separating illusions that govern our life and the world from the reality of “a pure diamond, blazing with the invisible light of heaven” is at the heart of spiritual transformation. This ability to penetrate illusions can only happen through solitude.

2025
Contemplation is about cultivating “absolute poverty.” We can finally see if we let go or empty our own mind and our will. In this state of unknowing, we, paradoxically, know and see. God can be known through our unknowing. The phrases, “a pure diamond, billions of points of light, blaze of a sun, the gate of heaven is everywhere,” pose a breathtaking design and vision of God for humanity.

Further Musing

Living life out of awareness is at the heart of living this life as God’s gift to us. In other words, life lived according to how God created us is the only way to live as aware souls. We can’t live as someone else. We all have to live according to how God created and made us in the Triune image and likeness.

Solitude is one sure way to be awakened to pursue and deepen awareness. Often, solitude allows the experience of deconstruction/disorder or breakdown of our false self. This is what Henri Nouwen calls the desert of loneliness. We see countless biblical saints who have been tested and matured through their own wilderness times.

As we become more aware, we begin to see others as “pure diamonds, blazing with the invisible light of heaven.” Not only do we see them as pure diamonds, but we also want to come alongside and be with them so that they can discover themselves as pure and immortal diamonds. This has to be done without violating the equality and solidarity with humanity. Nobody is a stranger. We are all pilgrims, walking on the road to discover who we are. Invariably, what we all do in life flows out of who we are (true self). And what we do (because we are made in God’s image and likeness) does and will reflect God’s Kingdom coming on this earth as it is in heaven.

Love guides our journey as pilgrims on earth and as citizens of heaven. It is the love within which is the love of God, perfectly demonstrated by Jesus Christ. It is love within seeing love in others as well as in all creation, all bonded together in God’s perfect love and moving toward love.

DIALOGUE WITH THOMAS MERTON | PART 3

This changes nothing in the sense and value of my solitude, for it is in fact the function of solitude to make one realize such things with a clarity that would be impossible to anyone completely immersed in the other cares, the other illusions, and all the automatisms of a tightly collective existence. My solitude, however, is not my own, for I see now how much it belongs to them—and that I have a responsibility for it in their regard, not just in my own. It is because I am one with them that I owe it to them to be alone, and when I am alone they are not “they” but my own self. There are no strangers!

2020
Merton explains and defends the function and responsibility of solitude as the vital passage for such profound realization. And that this realization of “reality” is pure, holy, and separate from illusions or collective group illusions. The “reality” that we all belong to each other as members of the human race can be actualized through solitude. So, solitude is not only for my benefit and betterment but for the benefit of others. Solitude allows us to see the world’s deep hunger and opens up our contribution to the world. There is a sense of holy duty and responsibility of solitude that links all humanity together. Solitude and service (to the world) are intricately knotted together. There is no more room for strangers.

2025
It is solitude that awakens the illusion and calls for the fruition of our service to the world. What can be viewed as dualistic between solitude and service, Merton convincingly ties them together as one seamless function. Therefore, contemplation and action can never be separated. Over the years, nature aided my deeper appreciation and need for solitude. As Christ’s fellow incarnations touching the earth, I am one with nature, the cosmos, providing the timeless, eternal connection.

Then it was as if I suddenly saw the secret beauty of their hearts, the depths of their hearts where neither sin nor desire nor self-knowledge can reach, the core of their reality, the person that each one is in God’s eyes. If only they could all see themselves as they really are. If only we could see each other that way all the time. There would be no more war, no more hatred, no more cruelty, no more greed. . . . I suppose the big problem would be that we would fall down and worship each other. But this cannot be seen, only believed and “understood” by a peculiar gift.

2020
Merton builds on his revelation by saying, “Then.” What matters is the core of the reality of “the secret beauty” of each person and who each person is in God’s eyes. Discovering (not making up) what we really are is life’s most important quest and pursuit. Then, we can begin to see others in the same light—the person that each one is in God’s eyes. Merton doesn’t say this here, but the reason that we can believe and understand this reality is because of God’s ultimate love and goodness, and because God looks on each of us with love and as love. It is like God seeing God in us. The infinite-ness of God sees the infinite-ness of God within each finite us.

A lost soul is an unaware soul. It is like sleepwalking in a vast field of the Reality of God and ourselves, oblivious to what is Real and false. An aware soul is one who sees himself/herself squarely placed in God’s eyes and who understands the core of their identity. It seems tragic to me that lostness is defined by some kind of religious formula couched in the dominant cultural forces of our time. The litmus test of our own awareness concerns whether we have the ability to see others as God’s indwelling beings.

2025
This kind of seeing, Merton recollects, is a peculiar gift. We cannot will this to happen. It is something that is bestowed upon us, and we simply receive it as a gift, pure grace. Once we see it, it is hard to un-see it. This seeing sees all of us as little pieces of heaven, sprinkled throughout the earth, to bring heaven to earth and earth to heaven.