The Taking of Care

Korea: An Unexpected Gift

I’ve just returned from the most beautiful of lands.

Its history, culture, and people have left mind and heart full.

It would be impossible to catalogue all that I saw, heard, and did, but I feel the need to tell of what it was like to be cared for and loved in a way I have not experienced in a very long time.

To begin, the trip was a marvel in itself. Given that I had resigned myself to a summer of frustrating recovery, the opening up of a portal to Korea was a sweet, unexpected gift from the hand of a Father who always understands.

There was not a single detail along the way that He let slip, from the many tiered-logistics of getting there to the very places I would lay my head.

It began when a colleague, who knew of my desire to visit the country where he had spent many years, saw me limping up to campus after my failed hike. “You’re coming to Korea!” he called from the window of his car. “Let’s talk!”

A meeting shortly thereafter with him and his dear Korean wife, where advice and suggestions were proffered, gave me the courage to buy plane tickets and begin to plan.

How many times did “chance” encounters and the radical generosity of others make this trip not just possible, but transformational? Hard to know, but everywhere I went, care preceded me.

It had been many years since someone else had made a hotel reservation, booked a train ticket, or organized a day for me, and yet all of these and more were gifts from my students’ parents, who graciously opened the door to their country and invited me in.

I haven’t always been so good at receiving. Stubbornness and pride are often barriers to accepting what others are so willing to give. This trip, in so many ways, taught me how to let go and say yes.

Yes to sleek black cars delivering me to destinations, yes to authentic meals with students and their families, yes to tour guides and time together with friends, yes to recommendations and reservations and respite, all bequeathed with no way of my ever reciprocating.

In the taking of care, I was frequently brought to grateful tears. Living alone, as I have, for over a decade, I had forgotten those little daily loves.

Looking back, I can imagine God’s delight as He watched his earthy angels bless and tend to His solitary child.

It gave me the freedom and bravery to explore in ways I’m not sure I would have otherwise been able to. And explore I did, every moment, every day.

Since I’ve returned, many have asked about my favorite part of the trip. Given the number of people, museums, markets, meals, and sites that I experienced, this is an impossible question to answer.

What struck me most, I suppose, was history: the story of Korea and its people, their suffering and redemption, the culture of honor and resilience that I only just began to understand. I am frequently moved by what I read, hear, and see.

One day, I board a bus to tour the DMZ. There are passport checks and armed guards and a feeling of sadness I just cannot shake. I’d been listening to several books about the North, and our tour included an interview with a North Korean defector. Bleak.

It’s a clear day. From the observation tower, we can see far into the countryside of North Korea. People on bikes, some in a field, a guard outside of a tower on a hill, a car, a cow. They are so close – it wouldn’t take me long to jog over to where they are, and yet – miles of razor wire, mines, and an unfinished war stand between us.

Who’s taking care of them?

I think of my students. Each will have to serve at least 18 months in the military before they turn 28. Some, alumni, already have. I study the soldiers who board our bus or guard the gates, wondering if I’ll see a familiar face, worry.

Another day, I walk through the Gamcheon Culture Village, where many refugees fled the war in the 1950’s. Now, it is one of the most visited tourist areas in Busan, having been revitalized through various art projects, murals, and sculptures. It’s an compelling contrast.

History is everywhere. I take the subway one morning to its terminus, Dadaepo Beach, and follow a path to the tip of a spit of land jutting out into the South Sea. Amazed to find a set of rickety stairs propped against what looks like an abandoned bunker, I climb up.

Lean out. Wind and rain lash, but I can see up and down the coast and away towards Japan. There are lighthouses, islands, coves. Was this once an active outpost? For a moment, it’s mine alone.

Other days, I happen by statues in the street or find an alley where books and newspapers were sold during the war. There are stalls there now, still active 76 years later.

Juxtaposed to the historic are so many modern marvels.

One of them is the ease of transport. Everywhere I go, public transportation is safe, clean, and affordable. Nor do I ever worry walking alone, no matter the time of day or night. How is it not this way elsewhere? Could we not, here, be as equally committed and welcoming?

Another, and one I avail myself of daily, are the coffee shops on every street and the widely available, lightning fast WiFi. Civilization at its finest.

I’m still sifting through all of the ways I was touched by this trip.

How can I not be grateful for the families and friends who took care of me, grateful for the beauty I got to walk in everyday, grateful, even, for the very injury that allowed me to journey halfway across the world?

It’s no small thing to be the recipient of care.

I am honored to have been Korea’s guest.