My Pilgrim Thanksgiving

Far away again this year,

It doesn't feel like Thanksgiving.

I wonder when we'll meet again

In Grandma's long buffet line,

Corelle plates stacked thirty high

When we start stabbing turkey,

Scooping up sweet corn and green beans

With the heavy silver spoon--

The one marked with our initial.

I hope you'll remember me

In your distant merry-making,

Cheeks sore with unharnessed laughter,

Stomachs hanging over belts.

And when the feast is all finished

And you count off your blessings--

A trio of brown rice grains each--

I'll say grace over Corelle

Of sticky white rice and kimchi.

And I will give thanks as the Pilgims did--

For weathered homes of faith and hope,

More cherished with each season;

For friends and fam'ly far away,

The love that's still between us;

For unfamiliar fish and plants,

That faithfully sustain me;

For native friends who demonstrate

New ways to tend life's garden;

For precious ones who speak my tongue,

Better, language of the heart;

For purple blossoms dotting hills,

Silent streams stirred from slumber;

For God's presence and provision,

The Lord, worthy of all praise.

When you sit around the table,

Dishes cleared, picking out tea,

I'll pour a mug of yuja-cha,

Steam rising with thanksgiving.

And I will still miss you more than ever.

Taste and See

“What would you like to drink—orange or grape?” she asks, pulling juice containers from the refrigerator. “Grape,” I answer. “I'd wanted to bring some for communion.” Not that we've ever done that before, but somehow I don't feel silly saying it.

I notice a basket of clementines on the table next to a neat row of brick-orange persimmons. “We hardly have an income, and yet we're eating so well.” Her words spill over with gratitude and awe as she recounts the list of givers who have brought fruit, kimchi, spaghetti, and so on. It's evening, nearly time for me to go home, but she tells me to sit down and eat some of that spaghetti that's in the fridge. She hands me the tongs and I dish some up on my plate. “More,” she says. I open the jar of homemade tomato sauce with onions, mushrooms, and red peppers. I ladle it onto the pasta. She sets out a loaf of homemade oatmeal bread next to a jar of nutella, a gift from an international guest. I eat spaghetti and we fix some slices of bread, and I muse at the communion we're sharing, right here at the table, with chocolate spread and all.

A neighbor knocks on the door. A co-worker, he's in the middle of fixing a cookout for the staff community. “Wondered if I could borrow some ingredients,” he asks. He practically makes out a shopping list, rattling off more than a half dozen items he needs. Yes, yes, yes, yes; it's all here for the taking. He goes and comes back a couple more times, and my friend stretches out her hands, her hospitality, without hesitation. She tells me of a guest from the previous week. She'd come from abroad with no plan of where to stay for the week, and so my friend took her in. In fact, it was that guest who'd made the spaghetti I was eating.

As I eat, I remember the puzzle I'd been trying to figure out and see the pieces coming together. I'd been pondering Paul's praise of the Macedonian church: "Out of the most severe trial, their overwhelming joy and their extreme poverty welled up in rich generosity" (2 Cor. 8:2).

I wondered how it could be. How joy and poverty could add up to generosity? I see my “just enough” and measure it precisely, always calculating this gain and that loss and figuring how far I can spread everything around. Could I really spare to be generous? How could the Macedonians give “as much as they were able, and even beyond their ability” (2 Cor. 8:3)? How could poverty plus joy add up to anything but contented lack? And yet—was that it? Contented lack—having nothing and yet having everything. Having joy so great it overwhelms you, overwhelms you to the point where extreme poverty can't get you down, and you're just compelled to give more.

I think of Brother Yun's testimony of impoverished believers in China who, when the offering plate was passed to them, would put it down on the ground and physically step inside, symbolizing the gift of their very lives. And here my friend was, demonstrating a testimony I could taste with my own tongue, see with my own eyes. I tell her how my sister and I had talked about money that week. And how I've started saving, because if I don't pay for my necessities, they'll burden someone else. Afterall, didn't Paul boast that he worked for his own living so he wouldn't be a burden to anyone? And yet, as a wise relative noted, when we insulate ourselves with money, we “take away God's chance to do miracles.” I start to tell her of a family that lives by faith, but we get interrupted and the conversation shifts.

It's just as well, really, because these matters of faith and obedience and wisdom won't be resolved in a conversation. The answers are in red letters, and Paul's letters, and the cross. Sometimes conversations become a tool to circumvent the answer you already know in your heart but don't want to admit. The more you discuss something the more complicated it becomes, and pretty soon there are so many reasonable viewpoints, you have no idea which way to go and any road seems just as valid.

Perhaps it boils down to the question another friend struggles to answer—perhaps the question at the heart of each of us: Does God really love me? And should I trust Him?

If we know God loves us, we have courage to trust Him with our lives—our whole lives: especially money, and also health, relationships, employment, and so on, until ultimately we trust Him to lead us into eternal life.

This week, it seems like God's been wooing me (with food and friendship—He knows what I go for!), convincing me that He really sees me, knows my hidden aches and pains, and holds all Power in His loving, able hands.

When I met my friend on Thursday, my heart felt empty of treasures and heavy with burdens. We sat in the park and I poured out the tears, and when it was time to go back home my heart was full again. The next day was a similar story... what grace that God's mercy is new every morning.

All throughout the week, God's been reminding me, persuading me, to “taste and see that the Lord is good” (Ps. 34:8).

Wednesday, a missionary gave me a loaf of raisin bread I've been munching on all week. Friday, another missionary took me out for lunch, filling not just my belly, but also my heart with good counsel and fellowship. Sunday, I received some fruit from the church's thanksgiving celebration. Monday, I started teaching English to a new friend and she brought a basketful of mocha buns (my favorite!!) and kiwis. The mocha buns really blew me away—only a couple people know I'm crazy about those. And today, I visited my Korean mom, and she sent me home with homemade pickled tomatoes and three loaves of fresh-baked panini. It didn't take long to finish off the first two loaves!

In all these gifts, I see God's love. I know that He sees me. I know that He knows me thoroughly, even the things I can't put into words. I know that He's got me covered.

“Taste and see that the Lord is good.”

Yes, I've been tasting. And I guess God knew I would be. Tomorrow He's lined up a free dentist appointment for me to get my teeth cleaned. =) Oh, me of little faith... how could I still doubt?

Taste and see... taste and see... the Lord is good.

Kimjang--Making Loads of Kimchi to Last all Year!

This past weekend, Sarangbang students, parents, community and church members got together to make kimchi! The event is known as kimjang (김장), and it happens once a year in the fall. Kimjang is done all over Korea, especially among older women, who make it for their children. Can you taste the kimchi in these pictures? ;-)

Garden-fresh Korean radishes

Preparing the cabbage (clockwise from upper left). It gets rinsed in salt water and then soaks in tubs of salt water overnight. The high school guys stir it around at 2 or 3am.



Red pepper paste (blend of red peppers, green onions, white onions, garlic, and some other stuff)



Applying the red pepper paste to the cabbage leaves. This part took a couple hours.

No doubt that man is inspecting my work. ;) First we were told to put just a LITTLE bit of paste on the leaves. I took it too far and kept getting told to add more. Someday I'll get it just right.

I can't imagine my grandma ever squatting like this to work.

Radishes + red pepper paste = Radish Kimchi!

Sopping up the extra paste with discarded cabbage leaves.

Bagging it for storage

Looks yummy!

Squeezing all the air out of the bags, any way we could.

Traditional kimjang lunch: boiled pork chunks, cabbage leaves, and slimy oysters. Not my favorite!

I hope this comes out in the wash!

Desiring Reformation

The Sunday before last, our church commemorated the 494^th anniversary of the Protestant Reformation. The sermon was based on Jesus' letter to the church in Sardis (Revelation 3:1-6), a letter I needed to read as much as anyone. Here's the Message translation:

"I see right through your work. You have a reputation for vigor and zest, but you're dead, stone-dead. Up on your feet! Take a deep breath! Maybe there's life in you yet. But I wouldn't know it by looking at your busywork; nothing of God's work has been completed. Your condition is desperate. Think of the gift you once had in your hands, the Message you heard with your ears—grasp it again and turn back to God.” (v.1-3)

When I heard this, I was gripped by the disparity between reputation and reality, busywork and God's work. I may have a good reputation and enjoy the favor of many, but that's meaningless to God. He knows my heart; he feels my pulse. He knows if Christ is living in me, the source of my work and the author of my days... Or if I'm spiritually dead, and trying to do things in my own power, enough to look good to others.

We often hear, “Don't worry about what others think,” usually in the context of people looking down on us. But maybe we need to hear it more when people are looking up to us. It's far too easy to swell with contentment when others praise and admire us, and even take that as an indication that we've done “enough to get by.”

The thing is, even in our “reformed” Church today, the standards and requirements we hold each other to are often different from what we find in Jesus' life and God's Word. Culture, bureaucracy, politics, legalism, and misled notions of grace often lead us astray on our path of discipleship...if we've ever even started down that path (belief is just the beginning!). We can far exceed others' expectations and still fall short of God's desire for our lives; and likewise, even ironically, we can please God and not satisfy others.

Last Sunday afternoon, our church had a lecture about the Reformation which I really didn't want to attend. Don't get me wrong—I like learning and listening to lectures—but in a language I can understand, please! After a lot of inner debate, I finally decided to let myself off the hook, come back to my room, do a quick computer search on the Reformation (to make up for missing the lecture, haha), and then continue reading from Brother Yun's Living Water.

What do you know, but the next chapter in was titled, “Sleeping church, Awake!” and quoted the same exact passage we'd read in church that morning—the letter to the church in Sardis! I knew it had to be a “God thing,” so I paid attention. Brother Yun reiterated two important points: the Church's urgent calling and purpose, and the need for obedience! I wish I could quote the whole thing, but I'll refraint:

“A spiritually dull church or believer is a poor witness for the living, resurrected Jesus. A church is meant to be a training centre and command hub for war, not a social club for pleasantries and hypocrisy, where people give lip service to Christ while refusing to obey His commands. Not only does God want you to wake up, but He has a work for you to do.

“[Many Christians] listen intently to every word that is spoken, but there is one major thing missing in their spiritual lives. They need to start obeying the Word of God.

“You see, when you only listen to the Word of God, your heart gets filled up with spiritual food. This is good, but it is there to serve a purpose. That purpose is for you to go and share the food you have with the hungry, so that they too can know Jesus. If you just keep God's blessings to yourself, you will become a bloated and sick Christian. When you share them with others, the Holy Spirit will give you more so that you can share more. It is a wonderful thing.”

That feeling of bloated-ness is partly what motivated me to get on a bus, go downtown, and look for poor people to share communion with a couple months ago. I read and read and read, and learn until I'm bursting with ideas and conviction about how I must live. But instead of trying it out, I heave a contented sigh, exclaim “Oh, that's good!,” and start reading again. There came a point where I said, “I cannot read another good thought on holy living until I put some of it into practice.” If we want to talk about reform, I think we have to start with ourselves. Make sure our individual limbs are fit for the Body, and start walking in obedience to the Word and the Spirit's movement in our lives. Stop just reading...