A ROAD TRIP

“If you want to identify me, ask me not where I live, or what I like to eat, or how I comb my hair, but ask me what I am living for, in detail, ask me what I think is keeping me from living fully for the thing I want to live for.” Thomas Merton

Living or traveling in Asia has its unique blessings and challenges. Of course, Asia is not one conglomerate, uniform reality. It is as diverse as the world. There is no other continent like Asia. Even then, the lure of materialism and consumerism has taken hold and been amplified in the underlying context of honor and shame cultures. “I am what I have” or “I am what I do” with an Asian stereotypical dominant worldview of “I am what others think of me” has clouded the pursuit of one’s true identity. The “I am” without the attachment of “what” is a rarity, particularly in Asia. At its worst, the “I am” does not even exist. So, the question and pursuit of “I am” is viewed as an unnecessary, unrealistic luxury.

A few days ago, we joined a couple that we have known for quite some time on a road trip from Kuala Lumpur, Malaysia, to Koh Samui Island, Thailand. They are a younger couple whom we have mentored over the years, and now we are simply friends and sojourners in life. With the lunar new year landing this week, they invited us to join the road trip. I was ready for an adventure, but I was more eager to spend time with the couple.

Thailand is a proud country, “the land of the free,” meaning it was the only Southeast Asian nation never colonized by the Western powers. Whether it was due to Thailand serving as a buffer zone between the British and French, the clever diplomacy employed by Thai leaders to survive, or a combination of both, it still maintains the title 'the land of the free.' This is reflected in their confident, easygoing smiles, with aplomb toward life. When crossing the border, even though the landscape, climate, and roads are similar, the atmosphere of Thailand feels different.

We spent a night in Hat Yai and met with another couple who have been serving as missionaries in southern Thailand for more than two decades. Isolation and loneliness have been ongoing challenges for them, but they valiantly established themselves well within the region. As we shared dinner, our conversations naturally revolved around the stages of life, how we are supposed to live authentically, above and beyond our duties and responsibilities.

Coincidentally, I am now going through a module called “Critical Life-Stages of our Faith Journey.” There are many models and layers of faith and life stages. However, it broadly falls into two major categories: the first half of life and the second half. The first half of life is usually defined and shaped by external authorities, rules, and regulations. They function as dualistic rails for people to run on, and conformity is the name of the game. The self within the first half of life is often the projected self. We “project” ourselves to fit in and comply, so our true self remains hidden. Learning, belonging, and certainty are determining words.

In the second half of life, the authority shifts from external to internal. While still gaining wisdom from external sources, they are no longer ultimate. Faith becomes more subjective, experiential, and personal. There is also a shift from dualistic to non-dualistic postures of life, where mysteries, paradoxes, wonder, and contradictions can coexist. This stage requires unlearning and relearning. The dominant self in the second half of life is the focus on the “given” self, the self that is created by God from the beginning. We begin to take ourselves seriously because God does. Belonging takes a different shape, not for the sake of accountability or conformity, but for traveling together in the same direction.

What falls in between the first half and the second is hitting a big wall, or a series of big walls. The ticket to the second half of life lies in the ability and willingness to let go of what we once held dearly. After hitting a wall, our faith proceeds from perceived and prescribed faith to searching and owned faith.

Back to the Merton quote above, nobody is going to ask me how I comb my hair. ☺ I suppose that is one less thing for people to wonder about. . . I do get passionate about what I like to eat, although my standards are not high. I am easily impressed, but my short attention span quickly shifts to what my next meal or food will be. While I live for the “next meals,” what I am truly living for is pursuing wholeheartedly what I love, as I realize more and more that “I am what I love.” I have to trust that my given self knows what and how to love since I was created by Love and for love.

Bernard of Clairvaux’s four stages of ascending love provide a helpful way to reflect. In these, the last stage is “love of self for God’s sake,” with earlier stages of “love of self for self’s sake,” progressing to “love of God for self’s sake,” and ultimately to “love of God for God’s sake.” While on this earth, I oscillate between stages one to three and three to one. What I “love” must pass the test of “for whose sake.” While I seriously doubt I can stay in the ultimate stage, I do aspire to it, nonetheless. The last stage embodies the union of myself with God. It is a heavenly union that I believe can be experienced on earth, which is God’s Kingdom coming to earth. “I” no longer exist to the extent that loving myself equals loving God and loving my neighbors.

A REST STOP

Malaysia was like a resting stop on our long pilgrimage journey. It has been about ten months since we were here last. The last time we were here, we did not know what our future held. We knew God was calling us to settle in Korea, but with no details in place, we discerned that Malaysia was the “rest stop” we needed to go through.

Being here this time, I am freshly reminded of the feelings of uncertainties and unknowns, layered with hope and anticipation for what was to come in 2024. Considering how little we knew about the future, I would still say that Malaysia was not a land of confusion, but a land of kindness. I caught myself saying to a group a few days ago, “Malaysia was kind to us.”  We experienced the unrehearsed word kindness as God’s patient unfolding plan. What could easily have been mounting frustration and hopelessness turned into affirmation and confirmation of God’s faithful guidance, step by step. Being here in the same neighborhood we stayed before, we are reliving the emotions and prayers we prayed, closely followed by deep gratitude to God.

Speaking of prayers, I lost count in praying “a prayer of unknowing” by Thomas Merton.

My Lord God, I have no idea where I am going. I do not see the road ahead of me. I cannot know for certain where it will end. Nor do I really know myself, and the fact that I think I am following Your will does not mean that I am actually doing so. But I believe that the desire to please You does in fact please You. And I hope I have that desire in all that I am doing. I hope that I will never do anything apart from that desire. And I know that, if I do this, You will lead me by the right road, though I may know nothing about it. Therefore I will trust You always though I may seem to be lost and in the shadow of death. I will not fear, for You are ever with me, and You will never leave me to face my perils alone. Amen.

I remember the emotions and increasing clarity of my desire. The line “But I believe that the desire to please You does in fact please You” is packed with full of hope, which emboldened my faith. Fear was a dominant emotion, not because of fear of getting lost, but because of the fear of irrelevance. I could rationalize that fear did not exist, but I learned to hold it tenderly. That was the peril I faced. I still struggle with that fear; at the same time, my desire to please God and to do my part in ushering God’s kingdom to this earth is real and palpable. In this sense, fear is a gift that keeps forcing me to turn to God’s intimacy.

Malaysia's kindness also showed in my growing love for poetry writing. The kind and supportive space gave me the courage to finally try my hand at poetry. I remember exactly where and when I wrote my first poem. In fact, I know, down to the intricacy of feelings, when and where I wrote each of my poems. A member of the group I mentioned earlier told me that I used to talk passionately about war or battle imagery, often referencing movies like Braveheart, The Band of Brothers, and The Lord of the Rings. And how they are replaced with poetry. I laughed out loud in agreement. I still like epic war movies. I also love poetry. The kind and the liminal space that Malaysia was, I am glad to be at this rest stop, once again, reminding me of the journey I have been on.

A friend of mine wrote to me that last week’s blog was also about “letting the food come to me,” referring to a picture of Bak Kuh Teh and other food adventures. Well, here is another version of letting the food come to me: Hainanese Chicken Rice

“LETTING THE GAME COME TO ME”

It is not uncommon that I begin writing not knowing where my reflection will go. I simply start with what has energy for me. I follow my conscious and unconscious streams of thoughts and often end up discovering what is in store for me. Today’s entry is a good example.

I am still in the middle of celebrating my 63rd birthday, though my actual birthday has come and gone. I was told that this year’s birthday is a once-in-a-lifetime birthday known as a platinum or diamond birthday, where the last two digits of my birth year, 1963, match my age, 63. So I decided to milk my birthday celebration beyond my actual birthday with the help of dear friends in Singapore and Malaysia. For one, it has been a non-stop feast, from Hong Kong dim sum to Peking duck, from Japanese ramen to Hokkien Prawn Mee noodle soup, to Bak Kuh Teh, and home-cooked Korean meals, over the last week. Much more than the delectable foods, I am pinching myself with the grateful realization of precious, like-minded, and similar-path-journeying friends, both in Southeast Asia and far away. I count my blessings often to know that I have such fine fellow peregrini. As I age, I consider my adult children and their spouses more as friends or fellow pilgrims than children.

Somehow, without planning, I’ve done things this week that I haven’t done in a long time. Maybe this pattern of trying new things will define this year? I wondered. Our Singaporean friend and host invited me to join his weekly yoga class. He warned me that most participants would be middle-aged Chinese Singaporean women, and he and one other man would be the only token men there. He tried to relax me and encourage me at the same time by saying it’s a “gentle” class, meaning there’s no crazy twisting or ungodly contorting. Thanks to the pandemic, I did do yoga for about a year with my wife, and I remember being quickly humbled as my stiff body experienced near torture. The profusion of sweat was my proof. The woman instructor was so quick-witted and friendly that I felt at home right away. Upon entering the class, my friend introduced my wife and me as his friends. She took the cue and asked me where we were from. I said, “Korea.” After a brief moment with a disapproving look, she refused to believe that we were from Korea and asked, “Where are you really from?” I said with a feeling of being caught, “We’re from America, living in Korea.” She said I looked like an American Chinese. I laughed out loud and wondered inside how she would come to deduce.

The same friend took me on a bike ride along the river on another day. Since I had not ridden a bike for a very long time, I was ready to feel the air on my face, which was a luxury of skipping Korea’s harsh winter. Though I immensely enjoyed the pleasant cool morning with a breeze on my face, signifying freedom, my untrained buttocks screamed at me. A long time ago, I did consider cycling as my next sport after basketball. But over time, I realized that I could not trust myself and that I would be too daring and not have enough respect for speed and safety. As much as I enjoy the wind on my face, I still don’t think it is a wise choice as my next sport.

On my actual birthday in Malaysia, my friends took me to the driving range. This outing was not as new as the others, as I joined my children at the driving range and at Top Golf in the US. While I enjoyed hitting the ball when I did make contact, I knew what my problems were: my left arm needed to maintain a straight line when swinging, and I was exerting too much of my own power rather than letting the club do the work. My blistered right thumb was proof that I was holding the club too tightly.

The day after, my friends in Kuala Lumpur invited me to their weekly badminton. Badminton is very popular in Southeast Asia, as indoor badminton courts are everywhere. Other than my stint at playground badminton during elementary school days in Korea, I could not remember the last time I played with intention. Again, I was properly humbled as my body was so tight and rigid that I did not have the kind of agility that is needed to play badminton well. I blamed myself for not stretching enough, and that it was early in the morning. After one hour of chasing the shuttlecock, my friend casually remarked that I was exerting too much power.

There was an unexpected theme of letting go, emptying, and “letting the game come to you.” As with yoga, driving ranges, badminton, and even cycling, loosening up and being in the flow is a counterintuitive art to learn and relearn. This realization naturally prompted me to reflect on areas of my life where I hold too tightly, try to control obsessively, or exert too much “power” and effort. What would it look like to let the game come to me? As soon as I ask myself this, I remember the mantra prayer, “Trust the river I am on,” which I have relied on for many years. This wasn’t a new lesson but a prudent one I needed to be reminded of.

SPIRITUAL DIRECTION

As we walk the streets of Singapore, my body is in shock, having shifted from the tundra to the tropics. My eyes are feasting on perennial lush greens, exotic flowers, and plants everywhere. Most notably, my toes are grateful for their freedom. I told someone just yesterday that my first time in Singapore was back in 1986. That person promptly said to me that it was well before he was born. Since 1986, I have probably visited Singapore more than thirty times, easily. So, Singapore and I go back a long way, and I feel a certain bond with Singapore as if it were a close friend. Building on this sense of coming full circle, my “mission” has shifted to helping and companioning people to discover the God-given gifts that they are, so they can live out their fullest potential as intended by God’s original and enduring design.

A great Jesuit philosopher and teacher, Pierre Teilhard de Chardin, once said, “My self is given to me far more than it is formed by me.” He also wrote elsewhere, “Above all, trust in the slow work of God.” Discovering the given self requires hard and intentional work on our part and the slow work of God. Peeling away the layers of false or carefully “formed” self is the hard and courageous work and is met by the gracious, patient, and slow work of God.

My spiritual direction training is coming to an end, and I see the light at the end of the tunnel. With one more module to go, I see the finish line. From Malaysia to the US and to Korea, the school was one constant discipline over the span of about fifteen months. The finish line will be the Closing Residency in Baguio City, Philippines, during the second week of April. As I look ahead, I want to offer spiritual direction to people who may desire the hard and slow work. With a fair amount of confidence in the spiritual direction tradition to which I belong, I am shamelessly promoting my individual spiritual direction ministry in my blog space.

The word “direction” is a misnomer because there is no directing in spiritual direction. It is more of companionship, as we simply offer a safe, hospitable space for people to discover their own answers to their questions and ultimately their own God-given selves. We do this by contemplative listening and evocative responding. If there is directing, it is a more gentle, tentative invitation as opposed to direct advising. Spiritual direction is neither about problem-solving nor acquiring skills but discerning the ever-present Presence of Christ in daily life.

If you know someone who might benefit from such a space, please let me know. I understand that spiritual direction isn't for everyone. I have no preference regarding the potential directees’ religious or spiritual backgrounds. I might be more sympathetic to those with a missions background, but since it’s not about me or my background, it really does not matter. I am eager to place myself beyond my familiar religious tradition and learn. Because dual relationships are discouraged, having a spiritual director who only plays one role in the directee’s life is ideal. Once my training is complete, I plan to take on a few more directees starting in May or June.

The posture and philosophy behind spiritual direction are an essential part of how my wife and I want to live our life forward. I am grateful and excited to be at a place in my journey where I can offer this space to those who desire.

IMAGINATION AND DESIRE

We cannot desire what we cannot imagine. Imagination does not require comprehensive knowledge; a brief, luring understanding will suffice. In fact, imagination thrives when knowledge reaches its limit. Conversely, mastery of knowledge does little to invoke imagination; instead, a certain hunger and curiosity to see and experience more foster fuller imagination. Eugene Peterson translates Matthew 5:6 this way, “You’re blessed when you’ve worked up a good appetite for God.”

A hunger or a good appetite for God creates humility of unknowing, a poverty of heart and mind. This humility becomes a fertile ground for imagination to thrive. Life continuously cultivates hunger and an “appetite” for God, which sparks a more intense and healthy imagination of intimacy and union with God. The grace of God allows us to taste and see that God is good and to grow that hunger. Recognizing this hunger and actually tasting God’s goodness are one and the same. This is also the idea behind seeing God dimly. Because we see God dimly, we desire more of God. Furthermore, the ability to see God dimly is itself a grace at work.

The moments in life that grant us access to God, through seeing (dimly) and tasting, are, more often than not, not over-the-top or earth-shattering events, but rather through soft, shy whispers of life. During the previous week, I gifted my books to two different individuals. The introductions and connections happened through mutual friends and acquaintances. Both were grateful to receive my book, which humbled me. One is a young cancer patient, who is also a father of 9-year-old and 7-year-old daughters and a husband. As an aspiring actor and radio host, he has been fighting cancer for close to ten years. His long curly hair, down to his shoulder, looks natural and fitting. His vocal cord was significantly damaged due to radiation treatments, and he lost his voice for about three years. Now, there is a slight hope of regaining his voice. He whispers as he talks and is one of the most grateful people I have ever met.

I found out he is our neighbor, almost within walking distance, in fair weather. What grounded him during those years of forced silence was building his own house with his two able hands, step by step and day by day. He imagined a perfect home for his family, and the imagination fed his desire, you might say. He proudly showed a picture of his beautiful home. Every time I pass by his house, I offer a quick prayer. I have joined others in praying for him and his family that God would intervene. We will know in two months whether his vocal cord can be healed or not . .

A close family member of his has been telling him, like the modern-day Job’s friends, that God would heal him if he went to seminary and did God’s work, as his wife joined us a bit later and chimed in. Their togetherness warmed my heart because I could sense that they were one in the Spirit and learning how to live their life forward. Still, such a comment breaks my heart for him and makes me angry to no end. The anger and frustration also carry a layer of compassion, as I know I could have been one of those zealous family members in the past. Over the years, one of my revelations about God has been the shift from viewing God as a small-minded God demanding our absolute obedience to seeing Him as a generous, big-hearted, compassionate God who loves nothing more and nothing less than our love — even if it is incomplete and conditional — and returning that love to God.

Thankfully, he refuses to be imprisoned by such talk of a sure God. I imagine my God who loves to “set the burdened and battered free” and who loves each of us to discover how God created us to be. I desire to experience more of this kind of God and share far and wide how wonderful our God is.

SILENCE

My wife is not particularly a chatty person or a busybody. In the silent mornings she adores, she thoughtfully structures her day, moving through it with intention and purpose. Being in a large house, isolated up on a hill with no human beings nearby, and with my wife the way she is and functions, I, too, experience ample silence throughout the day. After breakfast on our own, which has been the pattern for many years, I clear out of the house in seeking a more “extroverted” silence by going to a neighborhood café. Occasionally, my wife joins me on a café outing, as is the case today.

Since it is too cold for outdoor exercises for my Southern California-acclimated body, we opt for a gym in the late afternoon, three or four times a week. We are part of an online group that does a weekly health challenge here in Korea. Fourteen of us chose an exercise regimen that we set for a period of three months. If we miss the weekly goal we set, we pay a small penalty, which goes to a Christmas gathering fund. Last year, though, we only collected a little over 20,000 won (equivalent of $15). That showed how well we met our goals. Exercising in a gym is another kind of extroverted silence. I draw energy by being in a surrounding like this. I find it helpful that one of the signs the gym has is no phone engagement while sitting down on the exercise equipment. Being in touch with my body helps me feel more present and alive.

Afterwards, we would often swing by Hanaro Market and buy a few items for dinner or the next morning’s breakfast. I find that it is, oddly but not surprisingly, grounding to go to a market every day. My wife began to make her own yogurt after purchasing a home yogurt maker. As is the case with homemade yogurt, we are happy that Korea is known for a wide selection of slow foods. Silence and slow pair up well. After a few people gave us some prized Kimchi, which stands at the pinnacle of slow food, one section of our refrigerator is stocked full of Kimchi. I feel rich and happy. We often make dinner, with my specialty being soups and stews, and do the dishes together, followed by watching singing programs or dramas on Netflix in the evenings.

Routines keep us grounded and anchored. Now that we have Korean phone numbers and a bank account, which took dizzying, complicated effort, we are happy to stick with the mundane routines of the day. I told some friends in Korea that I could create an entire YouTube episode based on my experience. I discovered that, for long-term residents, even in an advanced and sophisticated country like Korea, one cannot function well without Korean phone numbers. Even I, as an ultra-spontaneous person, know that routines are necessary and helpful, like building blocks of life.

There is power and wisdom in silence and from silence. Silence creates and expands the capacity to listen, see, and notice things as they are, not as I am. While it is natural to see and listen through the filters of how we are wired and positioned, which means we are constantly filtering, there is profound wisdom in observing and listening to what truly is. Silence serves as the anchoring space when I meet with my directees, both one-on-one and in groups. I am continually amazed at how clearly God speaks and manifests during silence.

Perhaps there is little difference between the interspersed silence of daily life and the intentional silence we carve out for God and with God... Silence is God’s space. Every time we enter silence, we step into God’s presence. The dormancy of life and the monochrome of winter create a sense of deafening silence, even as I look at the frozen vast Bukhan River, amazed. The vibrancy of spring, the flourishing of summer, and the abundance of autumn give way to winter, marked by silence, and reminding us that silence is God’s way of working and speaking.

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.