I made my rounds with various relatives scattered throughout South Korea. The range of education, wealth, accent and geography amongst my close relatives was simply astounding. Though I did come to develop relationships with some of my relatives, for the most part, I was a novelty to be passed from one relative to another. They did a great job of taking me to tourist attractions and the all the best they knew. I accepted anything and everything they offered. I was also able to read quite a bit at a lazy, leisurely pace.

Half of the summer flew by, as did the faces of my relatives. I was beginning to enjoy my summer, when I was sent to the country, to my second uncles farm, where my grandmother was staying.






The bus crept along, any forms of the city long gone. Stretches of rice paddies rolled around the hills, and blended into the horizon. The bus stopped in the middle of nowhere, and the bus driver called out at me. My stop was marked by a lone tree on the side of the road. Surrounded by rice paddies. I didnt know what to do, so I did nothing as the bus rolled away. I pulled out my tattered East of Eden, and started it again. Several minutes passed before I heard the faint sputtering of a scooter. I glanced up, and saw an uninteresting lone rider in the distance. I was warming to the book when the scooter reached me, and stopped. I looked up, into a dusty, hard face that was faintly reminiscent of my fathers. Ja-gun ah-buh-ji?(small uncle/2nd uncle) I asked. He nodded, and motioned for me to get on behind him.

We rode for quite some time, but the ride was pleasant. I tried to keep my balance, without grabbing or clutching at my uncle. I wanted to show him that I trusted him, and that I was a grown man. The flat lands became soft, rolling hills, and the lazy warmth of the summer was soothing. We came to a stop, in front of a small cluster of buildings. My uncles house seemed to be a haphazard compound of buildings reflecting materials which were surplus at different years. (I later came to learn that his house was the largest for miles around, and that he was quite a large property owner. So much for my judgment of socioeconomic standing) I met my aunt: a small, quiet woman, who had little to say to me. I was led into a small room, where my grandmother was waiting.

The shock of seeing her was unbearable. My memories of my grandmother were of a fearsome woman larger than life, whom even my father feared. A woman who seemed to have impossibly large breasts, and even larger hands to smack your butt with. She put the fear of God into us, this woman. Yet my memories of her were also of sticks of gum and candy that came out of nowhere, hearty laughs that filled the house, and a sly smile that came at the most random moments. I loved her, and missed her terribly when she went back to Korea, years ago. The small form in front of me, that seemed little more than a skeleton, couldnt be her. She saw me with milky white eyes and called out, *****? (The name of my cousin) My aunt gently told her that it wasnt my cousin, but her 2nd grandchild from Korea. guhl ee ah? (my Korean name is chung gul. Guhl ee ah was a phrase that elders used for any one, or all, of my brothers and myself) I said softly, Hal muh ni. Juh yeh yeo. Sohn ja whas suh yeo. (grandmother, its me. I (your grandchild) am here.) My summer laziness and carefree manner rapidly became sorrowful. My nose crinkled in that familiar way, and as I kneeled before her and bowed formally, tears that were commanded to stay back somehow slid over the brims of my lower eyelids. My aunt and uncle went away, as I became reacquainted with my grandmother. We were both shy, and had trouble meeting the others eyes, though we had spent years together in the past. I didnt want my shock and sorrow to show in my eyes, and sheI dont know. She seemed a little ashamed of her state of existence.

As we gradually warmed up and chatted, she became much more livelier. She told me of how she read her extra large print bible daily, and sang various hymns. She told me of how no one came to talk to her anymore, because of the smell of her medicines. It was then that I first became aware of the smell that filled the small room. It was strong, true, but close enough to the smell of Ben-Gay for it to really bother me. I again felt tears coming. She was so lonely. I was getting angry at my relatives, who had passed her around and around, none willing to take responsibility for her care, and at my second uncle, who had her right under his own roof. My anger slowly dissipated as I realized that she harbored no ill will towards any of the same relatives. She did not blame them, because she knew that the smell was bad, that looking at her was depressing, and was especially grateful for my second uncle. Guilt came over me as I saw that my uncle had shown her the most love. Each time he came into grandmothers room, he nearly buckled with sorrow. He hurt more deeply than any other, and I loved this silent, morose uncle for it.

Eventually, the evening came, and like most country people, my aunt and uncle were ready to sleep. They offered my cousins room for me (he was away in the army), but my grandmother asked, and almost pleaded as a little girl might, in a soft, unsure, and hopeful manner, if I would like to sleep next to her. Mother, my exasperated uncle said, you cant ask him to sleep next to you. Both my aunt and uncle were seemingly apologetic of my grandmothers request.

Its ok, I said. Ill sleep next to her. It was no big deal for me. The smell wasnt that bad. Besides, I had come all the way from the US, and who knows when I would see her next?

I was awakened the next morning by a loud, resounding boom! that shook the house. Whats going on? I asked. Thoughts of earthquakes, war, and Armageddon went through my mind. My aunt was unfazed. Its the army. She took me outside and pointed at a mountainside in the distance. The tanks are shooting in the mountain. Target-practice. My nerves were still firing. It took a while to calm down, and accept that North Koreans werent invading right now (my uncles farm was close on the northern part of Korea).

I spent the next two days talking with my grandmother. She hardly left her room, which was no more than an early grave. She took her meals in the doorway of her room and the living room, as if reluctant to leave the refuge where she was not shunned. She left only to go to the bathroom or to wash, and groaned and creaked all the way out and back in. It was painful to watch her movements. I couldnt get over at how small her frame was, how thin her behind was. When in her room, she slowly rotated positions, because it hurt to stay in any one position. It hurt her to move, also, but the former pain was apparently greater.

She told the same stories countless times, sometimes telling the same story consecutively. She called me by my older brothers name, by my younger brothers name. Sometimes, she called me by my own, and I was able to feel a small glimpse of hope that maybe she wasnt doing that bad, that maybe she knew exactly who I was. That hope was always dashed five or ten minutes later. She sang her hymns, all with the same monotone melody, with a quavering voice full of sorrow and hope. She talked about the cycle of life, citing the monster horse flies that occasionally flew in as examples. Over and over again, she said and did the same things.

My grandmother really did read the Bible faithfully, much more faithfully than I read the Word of God. She truly believed, for which I was extremely thankful for, and spoke of dying in a happy voice, eager to go to heaven. I was humbled by her faith and her assurance in heaven and God. I spend the entire time with her, hanging on a fine balance, struggling to keep my eyes as wide as possible to keep the tears back (not easy when you have small eyes like me), and just flat-out crying. We were both ashamed when I failed, and we cried together several times. I let the gates open when she took naps. I patiently listened to the same stories she told over and over again, told stories of America, read from my books, and occasionally sketched pictures of her.

Surprisingly, the woman who seemed somewhat apathetic towards her last days on earth was extremely critical of my sketches. I was a bit defensive and even argumentative, and firmly told her that she really DID look like that. I had often heard compliments for my sketches, and so criticism, even from my dying grandmother, did not jive with me (such is my proud heart. I blush to remember).

There was one thing I had not accounted for when I agreed to visit my grandmother. Someone had failed to let me know about the outhouse. Somehow, though we lived in the 20th Century, people still had outhouses. My uncle happened to be one of them. All the horrible stories I had heard about outhouses were not true. Outhouses were a lot worse. When I opened the door, I was hit by an intense odor that simply cannot be described accurately. I did not get a good look inside the first time, because it was simply too much. As the need became greater and greater, I resolved to grow some nuts and do what I had to do. I tried a second time, and this time was able to stay long enough for my pupils to dilate and allow me to orient myself. There was a square plywood board with a round hole in the middle of the shack. I took one step forward, still several feet away from the hole, and ripped down my zipper, pulled my underwear down, and let a violent stream go. It was blissful. I still remember the exact feeling I had. It was good. During those long minutes, I did not take a single breath. It was longer than any breath I had held while swimming. I was quite proud. With a broad smile, and feeling bold and adventurous, I returned to the house.

Sometime during the night, a bigger problem reared its ugly head. A large mass in my bowels was demanding release. I remembered the difficult experience earlier in the day, and my cowardliness came back, triumphantly reconquering lost ground. I resolved to hold it for the two days I needed to stay at my uncles place. Two days? I have done that before, and for the nice, modern throne that awaited me after two days, I could wait.

I enjoyed my time with my grandmother. It was sorrowful, but I was glad I had visited. But after two days, I was ready to go. My grandmother, it turned out, was not.

Just stay a little longer, my aunt said. She really enjoys your company, and she has been more active and lively spending time with you than she has in months. There was no way I could say no to that. How could I refuse? And so I stayed.

How much was a little longer? I had no idea, but clung to that promise, just a little longer. As each day passed, I grew more and more worried. As I said, I was determined to wait until I was back in a city before taking a dump. I slowly began to lose my appetite, eating less and less each day. By the end of the 6th day, I could not and did not eat any more. My entire abdomen felt full, and something would push into my esophagus when I made a sharp movement. I constantly passed gas, to my great relief, because it relieved the tremendous pressure in my abdomen. During the fifth and sixth days, I became quite the expert at relaxation and meditation to take my mind off defecation.

At the end of the seventh day, I could take no more. Dull vision and ploddy, drunken-like steps somehow took me to the outhouse. I smelled the stench even from the outside, but I didnt care anymore. I pulled my pants down, squatted over the hole, and let go.

Except nothing came out. I executed the Valsalva maneuver with as much force as I could muster. Slowly, a huge monster of a log crept out at a crippled ants pace. My anus was stretched to its limits. I ran out of force, with only two inches of the log out. I had pushed the air out of my lungs to generate force, and I was desperately in need of air. I could not resist any longer, and took a deep breath. I nearly fainted from the fumes. Strangely, the odor of my own excrement was like a reassuring barrier and refuge against the strange, concentrated, and rotten smell of the outhouse. With that, I resumed my efforts. Somehow, with several long pushes, the log finally came through, and landed with a loud plop onto the murky depths below. I am ready to claim with honest and firm belief that the log was surely 1 foot long, and perhaps four inches in diameter. The weight of the log was such that it pulled the last of itself out of me, without any Valsalva assistance. It left a strange empty feeling in me. I was sweating with the effort, and lifted a quick prayer of thanksgiving that I was still alive after the ordeal. There were moments during the battle when even that did not seem a sure thing. I wiped my anus which had surely been through the most trying time of its career, and rose to get up. Little did I know.

As I stood up, there was a strange movement from within. Surely not? My brain could not process what my bowels were telling me. My bowels were ready to roll again, while my brain said that there could not possibly be any more. My bowels won, and I squatted again.

Feces of a much more familiar consistency followed the path of its very unrighteous brother. It was of normal color, normal consistency, and of normal diameter. My sphincter appreciated that quite a bit. Two logs of appreciable length. I proceeded to wipe.

Midway through my second wipe, a loud growl emerged the depths of my abdomen, and a sudden urge overcame me. The urge quickly became pain, and I squatted yet once again. A hot, acidic diarrhea propelled out of my bowels. The acid felt as though it were burning through the delicate mucous membranes, and scalding my perianal area. I cried out to my dear God, because it was a pain like no other. I asked Him to take it away, to stop the pain. I squealed inside as pigs do when they are branded with a hot iron. Close to a liter of diarrhea had burned its way out. Below, I could see the violence splattered over the white of the toilet paper I had used. But before I could even think about the funky pattern below, a different wave of muscle contraction seized me. I was too exhausted to resist the convulsive contractions within and without. My muscles ejected squirt after squirt of a clear substance, similar to a mix between mucus and water. I was so tired, I just let my body do what it had to do. At this point, I was ready to just lie down there.

I rested in the ah juh shi squat (old Korean man style). I dont know how long. Time held no meaning for such an experience.

I was eventually able to lift my head. My eyes could not focus; with blurred vision I grabbed the toilet paper. I wiped. Apparently, enough time had passed that there was no moisture left around my anus; it was completely dry. I knocked what was there off.

Somehow, I managed to stand up. The shack spun, due to the orthostatic drop in my blood pressure. I knew enough to step forward, regardless of what the shack was doing. There would only be trouble if I stepped back behind me.

I opened the door, and stepped outside. It had become dark. I felt 50 lbs lighter. Actually, I felt as though someone had carved a huge canal within me, and took all my insides out. It was a huge hollow within. I smiled. I was alive. I felt good. I didnt know I had a headache before, but I realized that I did have one before, and no longer had one then.

As I stepped back into the house, the aroma of daeng jang jji ggae wafted through. A funny, unfamiliar feeling surprised me. I laughed. It was hunger.

The next day, my aunt told me that I was to go back to Seoul, to my aunt (2nd eldest on my dad's side) and uncle, who was a pastor at a big church in Korea. A brief flash of anger came and went as I thought back to the experience I had the day before. If only I had waited one more day, I could have gone in a modern toilet and avoided the outhouse. Reason soon knocked that silly thought out of my head. There was no way I could have waited one more day.

I said my good-byes. I truly regretted leaving. Though my 2nd uncle and aunt were the quietest relatives I had ever visited, they were very good to me. I would miss my uncle in particular, though I could count all the words he said to me on my two hands. He took me sightseeing several times, which Ill never forget.

On several occasions, (I don't know how they were chosen, because all the days were exactly the same at the farm) my uncle would rouse me from my sleep. No words were offered; we just packed, and rode the scooter into the mountains. We stopped in front of elegant, breathtaking waterfalls, which made the Niagara Falls seem brutish, and beautiful, mossy mountains, skirted by light, lacy clouds. We gazed and gazed. Sometimes observing the beauty before us, sometimes focusing on something else within. Those were hours passed between a man and a boy, quality time of just intense reflection. I had never had such times before, nor will I likely have them again.

I didnt want to leave my grandmother, because she really did look like she was going to miss me. I really had not done much of anything for her, other than keeping her company. I had given her an ear, argued with her, slept in her room, and read while she was sleeping for a week. I left her a couple of the sketches that she didnt think were any good. She cried a bit, and II guess I did too. (Im turning out to be quite unstable emotionally, no? It is the Korean side of the Korean-American in me)

I finally gave my aunt a hug, and climbed behind my uncle on the little red scooter.

The rice paddies flew by in what seemed like seconds, and we came to a cluster of small buildings. The local store and various other small businesses were situated here. I bowed good-bye to my uncle, at which he nodded. He then shook my hand, and swung his leg over the scooter. He left as he came, put-put-putting, a lone figure on a little scooter, disappearing into the distance.

Several hours later, a bus rolled to a stop in front of me and I got in. As I leaned back against the chair, I thought about the past week. I loved the farm and my time there. I felt like a new person. It felt as though my entire experience in Korea had just climaxed. Nothing could be as beautiful as the waterfalls, nothing as emotionally taxing as staying with my grandmother for a week. I glanced at my watch. Four hours to Seoul. I pulled out my East of Eden.



SEOUL

Many chapters later, I lifted my head and saw that we were in the city. Gone were the mountains and greenery, and in its place were tall buildings, everywhere.

When I got of the bus, I stood, again confused. This was always the tricky part, because I had no idea what my relatives looked like. They had a description of me, and knew my schedule, that was it. I must have looked confused enough, because a man in his early thirties with a woman in her mid-twenties made up their mind to approach me. For a minute, I thought how funny it would be if the wrong family picked me up, and I spent the entire rest of the summer with complete strangers. But as they peppered me with questions, I realized that my cousins knew too much about me to be strangers. For they were indeed my cousins. We rode for another 30 min or so, while they both chatted away, frequently asking questions, offering information, and generally yakking it up. Tae, my guy cousin who looked about thirty, was married, had just finished seminary, and was serving in a pastoral capacity at the church. Soo, my female cousin, was in her late twenties, served as choir director, and was apparently looking for a husband. She asked, with a laugh, if I knew of any good guys in America. After one week of near-silent existence, their conversation seemed really loud to me.

I gradually became used to the volume of their voices and the frequency at which they spoke. Surprisingly, they had a fair grasp of English, the best of all the relatives I had visited so far. They tried out their entire repertoire on me. It only took the car ride for me to feel like Ive known these two cousins for a long time. They were extremely friendly and easy-going, and I would have wanted friends like these, even if they werent my relatives.

After traveling on the vast highways in Seoul, we turned into a quieter area. The streets rapidly became smaller and irregularly paved. We came to a stop in front of a fairly large brick building of seven floors. There was a sign in front that read, ***** gyo hweh (***** church). My cousins took my bags, and we entered the building.

The ground floor was a large banquet hall/dining room. This building, it turned out, did not have elevators. The second floor had an extremely high ceiling, probably the height of two floors, and contained the sanctuary. As we climbed past, I took a quick glimpse of the plush red carpet, cedar wooden benches and pulpit, and golden cross in front. Churches in Korea did not look so different from churches in America, I thought. The third and fourth floors were composed of classrooms. Definitely Sunday school classrooms. The fifth floor was a rather bland floor, and I could not guess its function. Panting with the effort of climbing the rather steep stairs, we finally turned in on the sixth floor.

My aunt and uncle, who had been sitting at the dining table, rose to greet me with open smiles. It was easy to see where my cousins had gotten their easy and happy manner.

I was again asked many questions, which I tried to answer as best as I could. My cousins joined in as well, and after a few minutes, the focus turned away from me, and to general conversation. I felt like I was part of this family. My uncle abruptly checked his watch and apologized to me. He had to prepare for his sermon. I was soon to discover that my uncle was a very, very busy man. As the head pastor of the church, his duties were many. My aunt and Soo proceeded to show me around the sixth floor, their home, while Tae went back home (which I later discovered was next door).

My room was small but clean. The walls were whitewashed, and fairly stark but for a picture of Jesus praying in a frame. A fancy, dark wardrobe was in the corner. The floor, like nearly all the floors in Korean homes, was of linoleum. I set my bags down, leaned against a wall, and let out a slow breath. I wanted to rest and just be, after all the stimulation my senses had just received.

I was awakened later in the evening by giggling. Though I kept my eyes closed, I gradually came to my senses and realized that there were at least two, if not more, kids in the room. They were whispering in shushed voices that were louder than normal speech, and kept erupting in giggles. Evidently up to no good. I decided then that since they had entered my room, impinging upon me, I had the right to do whatever I wanted to them. As one of them came tiptoeing, hugging a barley-filled pillow (to put over my face, I presume), I suddenly rose up and houted, AAAAAAAAAAHHH!!! They took one look at me, and fled screaming, nearly tearing down the door. I had a good laugh. I followed them out, where Tae, Soo and another man and two women were laughing as they were comforting the two little buggers. Little buggers who turned out to be my nephews, Young and Myoung. The adults introduced themselves. The man was the eldest cousin, In-Sung, and one of the strange women was his wife. The other woman was Taes wife.

By this time, the two little guys had stopped crying, and peered up at me, half angry, half curious. I laughed at them. Adult conversation followed, but I engaged only halfheartedly. These little fellows were much more interesting. It was a silent battle we waged. Funny faces, pokes, jabs, all trying to elicit a sufficient response from the other party.

I was awakened the next day by the bustling going on outside of my room. Sunday. It was Sunday, and the entire house was in a uproar. I quickly got up, washed up, and got dressed.

My aunt was bustling over the stove, preparing breakfast for a chaotic crew. My uncle and Tae sat down, took a few bites, and sped off. A few minutes later, In-Sung sat down, followed by my cousins wives. Meanwhile, Young and Myoung were running around, laughing, crying, hitting each other. My aunt spied me and sat me down. She brought toast, eggs and ketchup, a special breakfast, for me. Everyone else was digging into rice and daeng jang jji-gae, a powerfully pungent stew of fermented soy beans (think of miso soup that packs a punch, and smells unworldly).

Earlier in the summer, one of my aunts had discovered that I favored this combination of toast, eggs, and ketchup. Though I love Korean food now, at that stage in my life, I didnt really favor it. I was a McDonalds kid all the way. So when relatives brought out Korean staples, it was a while before I adjusted. But by then, the news had gone around my relatives that I would eat the combo of toast, eggs, and ketchup. All too frequently, the eggs were sometimes omitted, and then it became just toast and ketchup. Somehow, I ate those meals, out of politeness.

After breakfast, my aunt grabbed me, and we went down to the sanctuary, on the 2nd floor. There were a good number of people already taking their seats, praying. I did my best to fit in.

The service began with a hymn that I recognized, and I belted it out with all I had. Somehow, all those hymns I had heard while growing up had been stored in my head, and they came out of my memory like prisoners seeing daylight for the first time.

My uncle gave a rousing sermon. I have to admit, I was more fascinated with his delivery and the effect it was having on the congregation than the content itself. Nonetheless, I did understand the general gist of it. My uncle was quite a preacher, I thought.

After the service, my aunt went down to perform some duties, and I was left alone. I decided to go exploring among the various floors of the church.

Nothing was too interesting until I got to the third floor, where Sunday school was obviously in session. Not just Sunday school, however. Sunday school taught by an extremely cute girl in the front. I was mesmerized. Unfortunately, it was not very wise to stay right in front of the door, staring at her. She eventually noticed, and I thought I saw a quick smile flash across her face. For me? Surely not for me. I wasnt paying any attention to what she was saying, I confess. I was just held in a grip by her physical attractiveness.

I dont know how long I stood there, or how long I was staring, but eventually, the session came to a close, and little kids bowled me over and flew out. My attention, of course, was still on the teacher. By this time, I was trying to go James Bond and not be so obvious. Which meant I stared at her every other moment, and had to count before I allowed myself to look at her again.

She chatted with several other adults, teachers, I presumed, and made her way to the back. I started panicking, and turned to examine the decorated bulletin that was suddenly so interesting.

"Hi," said a soft voice in Korean. I turned, and immediately lowered my eyes. I still have a hard time looking pretty girls in the eyes. I guess Im afraid that they can somehow see into me, and find me lacking.

"Hi," I managed to squeeze out in a sopranos quaver.
"You must be the pastors nephew."
"Yes."
"I'm H*** J***. Actually, you can call me Lydia."
"Lydia? You have an American name?"
She giggled, and I couldnt stop thinking of how she seemed to be the happiest carefree person in the world.

Then, she dropped my jaw by speaking to me, in English. Not the broken English that all schoolchildren learn in school, not the English that my relatives try on me. But grammatically perfect, English, albeit with a small accent. I grew up in Argentina. My hesitant Korean disappeared, and I switched into my more comfortable element.

"Argentina? You grew up in Argentina? What's a Korean girl doing in Argentina?"

Lydias father, it turns out, had business in Argentina for quite some time, and had moved back to Korea some years back. Which meant that Lydia spoke not only Korean and English, but Spanish.

Senseless chit-chat followed, of which I remember not a whit. I managed to answer Lydias questions, and even ask some of my own, but I was floating on a cloud somewhere, singing halleluiah. She was such a nice person. I had an easier time talking to her than my own relatives. I shared my trip in Korea with her, and she listened. I was willing to tell stories forever, if that meant that she would continue to smile up at me. My euphoria was broken when a group of people entered the room. They were around my age group, and had come to get Lydia to hang out. Introductions were quickly made, and again, I became the test object of funky, broken English.

We headed out to a local jja jang myun (Chinese noodles with black bean sauce) corner restaurant. It quickly became apparent that these guys knew of me, already. The same crew had been Jimmys friends when he was here two years ago. Young Mo, the tough guy of the group, was especially nice to me. He was one year older than me, and one year younger than Jimmy. He had really liked Jimmy when Jimmy had visited, and now had taken an interest in me. The rest of the day flew by, and I was sorry when it became evening. We parted ways, and I walked back to the church building with Lydia, who also lived nearby.

Throughout the night, there was a furious conflict going on within me. Feelings, emotions I had never before were pulling in every which way, and a monstrous knot was rapidly growing in my chest. All thoughts were directing themselves to Lydia, everything re-aligned in my world in relation to her. There had been extremely few girls in my life.

When I went to Korea after 6th grade through the LA Korean Times program, I had met a girl named Julia from Chicago. She was cute, quiet, one I dared not approach nor speak to. It was a silent, inactive, nonexistent, but fierce, romance. All throughout the summer program, I was projecting my love to her. The summer came and went without me saying a single word to Julia. Throughout junior high and most of high school, I kept blinders on to avoid other girls. I worked hard, because one day, I wanted to fly to Chicago, find Julia, and marry her. Gradually, that vision died, but because of it, no girl had sat in my heart, beyond several light crushes. Until now.

As we walked together, everything within me directed itself to Lydia. My ears strained to catch every note of her sparkling voice. My eyes, small though they are, attempted to take in all of her, imprint that sacred sight, and store in treasured vaults, to be seen over and over again when I would be by myself. I breathed slow, deep, to inhale her every scent, coursing through and perhaps, become a part of me.

I learned so much about her from that walk. Lydia was a seminary student. A woman of God, I thought. The chorus of Beethoven’s Ode to Joy rang in my head. She also served in many capacities at church. In addition to being a Sunday school teacher, she sang in the choir, and was some type of leader for the young adults. A living angel on earth… I wanted to walk her to her doorstep, but as she pointed out, I wouldn’t know how to get back to the church building, where I was staying. We eventually reached the double doors.

The whole day was incredible, and I wanted to say something, anything, to let her know how I felt. I looked at her helpless, as I summoned up all that was within me, to rise to the occasion. An awkward pause hung briefly in the air, before Lydia’s happy voice broke it with ease. “Good night!” she sang in a voice completely unburdened, unlike my mind, which had failed me, as she skipped away.

I was so flustered, I couldn’t even say “Good night” back to her before she left. I was still thinking of something romantic or clever to say. Loser, I accused myself. I went up to the top floor, was let in by my aunt, and went straight to bed, to relive the unreal experiences I just had.

The next few days proved to be just as exciting. Church culture was much different in Korea. These guys congregated at church every day, to meet, talk, and plan the adventures for the day. In the following days, we played table tennis, volleyball, visited bookstores, parks, and generally traveled all over Seoul. Every day was another day with Lydia.

Once, we just gathered at church to hang out, and talk. One of the guys busted out a guitar, and began to sing some praise songs. Everyone joined in, and someone handed me a praise folder.

I was hesitant to sing. My brothers and I had grown up making fun of each other whenever we sang, whatever we sang. As a result, none of us sang very much, and never developed proper singing voices. Only when the chorus of a congregation covered my squawks, would I really let go and sing to my heart’s content. My brothers always gave me a strange look or a frown when I did this.

I decided to mouth the words, and hopefully go unnoticed. I would not have been able to sing anyway, because I was caught under the spell of a muse. Lydia was singing, and her voice was...just…heavenly. Oh my! I thought. She sings like an angel too? Her voice was of a quality beyond the sweetest voices I’ve ever heard. It was oh-so-accurate in pitch, clear, light, unadulterated by the tricks singers use to cover their flaws, and above all, her voice was happy. And the vibrato! Not the shrill irritating vibrato which takes away from the quality of the note, not the slow, elaborate vibrato which strays too far from the pitch, but a wonderful, true vibrato that cradled each note and gave it value.

It took me a while before I could worship with these guys. Sadly enough, at that time, I was all too conscious of people around me when I worshipped God. Especially Lydia. It should have been just about God, but it wasn’t so then, at least, not at the beginning.

Over the next few days, I grew more comfortable with the group, and with my voice. I wish I could say that my voice miraculously changed, and that I was able to sing well. My voice didn’t change. I wasn’t able to sing well. But it didn’t matter, because this awesome group of people always encouraged me by smiling at me when we sang. They never made fun of my voice, not once. No sarcastic shots at the nasally sound. No smirks and comments about me trying to bellow like an operatic tenor. Just smiles and encouragement. I came to love praising, and praising with this group. In time, Lydia ceased to be my focus during those worship times. It slowly became about God, not my voice, not my fears, not any girl, but just God.

THE RETREAT

Several days after the first worship time I had with the young adults, Tae, my cousin, asked me if I wanted to go on a youth group retreat with him. I must have shown my hesitation, because he quickly added, “Lydia is going, too,” with a smile.

“Well, I guess I might as well. I don’t have anything else to do,” I allowed.

We traveled on a bus to the country, and finally came to a mountainous area. A cute chapel sat on top of a hill. Cicadas chorused all around at an obscene volume level, and the faint smell of cow manure so prevalent in the country hung in the air. My ambivalence was settled with one glance at Lydia.

The retreat was much more like boot camp than I expected. Tae was gentle, loving, but he was firm. The children were extremely well behaved and responsible. Much more than me. I think I led a kid or two astray as we sometimes chose to ignore certain events and gatherings for stuff much more interesting. I was right in my element with these youth group kids. It was the summer camp that I have read so many books about, but never went on.

During one of the free times, when I was too exhausted to play anymore, I went to rest in the sanctuary. The praise leader, (the same guy who played when the young adults hung out) was reclining, picking and strumming. I sat back and watched him. He had a black guitar of Korean make, decorated with autumn leaves. I knew nothing of guitars then, but my heart was taken with his.

He had a tremulous voice, but plucked and strummed with confidence. What really caught my attention, however, was that I recognized the melodies. He wasn’t singing hymns, but praise songs that I was familiar with, like, In Moments Like These, Create in Me a Clean Heart, Change My Heart Oh God, and I Love You Lord. They were old songs, but songs I knew. Seeing my interest, the praise leader offered me his guitar. I shook my head. “No thanks. I don’t know how to play,” I murmured.

“I’ll teach you,” he said. He found a song that I knew, and taught me my first chords: G, C, D, and Em. After ten minutes, my fingertips were raw, and my hands were cramped from trying to hold uncomfortable positions. But I was able to play Create in Me a Clean Heart, and I was elated. That first moment stirred up a small spark, which would smolder in me until another, brighter spark during freshman year of college, when someone named Parker came into my life, and showed me how playing guitar might change my praise and worship life forever.

THE SWIMMING HOLE

In mid-afternoon of the next day, we all went to a stream nearby. There was a portion of the stream that widened considerably, with a slower current, forming a perfect swimming pool. Everyone was excited, and rushed into the water.

The water was shallow, perhaps four to five feet deep, and clear at first, but with so many kids churning the mud around, became muddy quickly. Most of them did not know how to swim, especially the girls. Knowing their limitations, most of the girls didn’t even bother to swim, but just walked through the water, talking. I played a funky off version of Marco Polo with most of the boys.

During the afternoon, while I was in the heat of a game, a chorus of screams pierced through the shouts of the boys and the background murmur of the stream. My head spun, trying to locate the source of the screams. I swam with all I had toward a group of girls that were thrashing about in the water. My cousin Tae was already there, and shouted at me to hurry. An entire group of girls had somehow gone into deeper waters, and were flailing about, panicking. I grabbed two girls by the waists, then hooked the crook of my arms around their chins like I thought I remembered learning when I took that lifeguard test so many years ago, when I wasn’t really paying attention nor entertaining the thought of ever using such techniques. One grabbed my head, and pulled herself up, pushing me into the water as I inspired. The other kept hitting and kicking me, for what reason, I don’t know.

I tried to ignore their struggling, and though my chest burned and my throat tickled with the water I swallowed, I kicked several times, as hard as I could. When I was sure I was past the deep waters, I threw the girls at the sobbing group of girls that were on shallower waters, and went back to where Tae was also pulling three girls out. I grabbed two more girls, and these two were in worse shape, because they were not struggling much at all. I pulled them also out of the deep waters, and pushed them toward the others. By now, some of the older boys had also managed to help pull several girls out, and Tae had brought the last of them to safety. I whispered a prayer of thanks to God, because I had no strength left, and would not have been able to go back even if there were more girls. Tae and I checked all the girls, and miraculously, they were all ok. Well, maybe not ok, because the entire lot was bawling, even the ones who were never in danger.

Coughing, and spitting, I pulled myself to shallower water and sat. I took great, big breaths. I felt like I could not breath enough. I sat there, trying to understand how close those girls were to drowning, and how close I was to dying in trying to save them.

Tae trudged his way to me, and gave me a big hug. “Thanks.” I saw his chest, also heaving, and his fingers, which were trembling. I just nodded in response. I couldn’t really talk.

Eventually, my fear of not being able to breathe dissipated, and I was able to think again. A group of the girls came toward me. The ones that I had saved, I realized. They came up to thank me, but ended up bursting into tears as they relived their near death experiences. I wanted to tell them something really comforting, but again, I had no words to say. They came together and gave me a big, fierce hug. It was strange, knowing that I had just saved four girls from drowning. All those swimming lessons, and hours spent playing in the swimming pool, those ridiculous lifeguard tests I had to take, finally came to have meaning that day.

I felt like a hero. A hero shaking with wrecked nerves, soaked in water, but a hero nonetheless. When I saw the way Lydia was looking at me, I took smaller breaths, composed myself into an image of what a hero should look like, and gave her a smile. I felt like a knight in shining armor, proving my valor and courage. I was a nut.

It turns out that all the girls had been chatting and walking along in the water together in a tight group. Unknowingly, they were on an underwater shelf, and were slowly making their way toward the edge, where there was a sudden drop off underwater. When several of them went over, they had grabbed onto the nearest girls for help, who had also tumbled over, pulling in several girls also. Even in the “deep” section, it was not more than 7-9 ft deep. Yet their panic, fear, and thrashing about would have been enough to cause them to drown.

It was a crazy day. I am living a crazy life, I thought. I couldn’t enjoy the rest of the day because I was thinking of life, death, and how I nearly came so close to dying before I loved as man and woman love. I so badly wanted to love and be loved in return. I mean the foolish, throw-it-all-to-the-wind love, love that sensible practical people frown upon. (I am in a fix, laughing and gagging, as I write this…but that was how I felt then…)

Eventually the retreat came to an end. Being the clueless, church-by-habit monkey that I was then, I got absolutely nothing, spiritually, from that retreat. Other than my brush with death.

********** There was one thing that kept me from really letting Lydia know that I liked her. Her ring. I had noticed it the first day that I met her, of course. It was a gold band that she wore on her pinkie. Obviously not a wedding band, yet it was a ring of some significance.

After spending so much of my time with her, I knew that she was not dating anyone. Simply because I was spending nearly every day with her, with or without the other guys, and there was no significant one guy that took her away from us. One day, I got bold enough to ask her if she ever had a boyfriend.

She gave me a little grin. “Sure. You want to see?” I was a little downcast, but nodded. She took out her wallet, and flashed it open and shut it again. I was able to see that there was a picture of a guy, but the photograph had been covered by fine mesh, so it was hard to see what he looked like. I didn’t really care, however, and didn’t ask to see it again. It’s not like I would have known who he was.

I wanted to hear the story of her ex, what had happened, and why oh why did he do something so silly as to leave her, when Lydia obviously remembered him in a positive light? I was definitely curious as to what mistakes this foolish person had made, and more importantly, what was it about him that had caused Lydia to fall in love with him?

But she wouldn’t say. Never really cared to talk about it. She changed the subject in that happy manner of hers.

One day, she asked me if I wanted to see a movie. The big movie out that summer was Eraser, with Arnold Schwarzenegger. It was just the two of us.

When we got into the movie theatre, the first thing I noticed was an awful stench which smacked me unexpectedly. Seeing my facial expression, Lydia laughed. “What is that smell?” I asked.

“It’s squid and peanuts.” Sure enough, a look around showed a good number of people, showing no shame as they ripped the pieces of dried and roasted squid, chewing noisily on the smelly snack. I could only shake my head. Dried squid was good, but in a movie theater? What did one do if you were on a date?

The movie started. Eraser is not a particularly good movie. It’s full of action and Arnold moments. The thing that this movie DID have, however, was a lot of people dying. And I loved it. Because over the course of the movie, Lydia was leaning toward me. And every time a person died, she squeezed my hand. Never had I wished for people to die, as I did while watching that movie. I’m not sure I really knew what was going on in the movie, anyway. All I knew was that there was a beautiful girl next to me, half cuddling up to me, squeezing my hand whenever someone in the movie died. No girl had ever been so close to me, so intimate as to hold me hand like that. My whole body was buzzing.

The movie ended, too quickly. We headed out. I wanted to take up her hand, to hold it. A brief flash of boldness came over me as we walked, and I grabbed her hand. She looked up, surprised. There was a moment of hesitation, where anything could have happened…I was imagining the worst. Then she gave me a smile, and we walked along, holding hands. For me, it meant everything. For her, I don’t know. It was common in Korea for two friends to hold hands, even two guys (I found this a really gay and strange practice, really hard to accept and come to terms with, especially as these guys were totally straight), and I was hoping that it wouldn’t be a big deal for her. Or hoping that it would become a big deal for her.

“Want to get some ice cream?” she asked.
“Sure!” At this point, I would have said yes to anything she suggested.

BASKIN ROBBINS

We were close to our neighborhood, and there was a Baskin Robbins ice cream store around the corner. I was browsing over the various flavors, trying to decide. “Did you choose, yet?” Lydia asked. I shook my head, no. “Let’s a get a big bucket!” She exclaimed. “Then we can get as many flavors we want!” I wasn’t sure what she was talking about, but I agreed. The guy behind the counter reached up and picked up a container, literally a KFC size bucket. Wow, I thought. Lydia and I made our choices, about 6 in all. I still remember one of them, which Lydia particularly favored. Black cherry. The kid put two spoons and napkins in the bag. I pulled out money to pay, but Lydia stopped me with a stern look. “You’re the guest. I’ll pay.” I protested, and wasn’t going to give in. I really wanted to pay, and thank her for the amazing time watching the movie. She wouldn’t budge, however. She was just as stubborn as I. “Look,” she said, “you can pay next time.” At that, I gave in, happy that there was going to BE a next time. We made our way to the back of the store.

I couldn’t believe my eyes when I saw the spoons. They were tiny. Teaspoon sized. But we sat there, for a long time, talking, talking, talking, sharing a big bucket of ice cream, and eating tiny little spoonfuls at a time. I don’t think you can even imagine how happy I was.

***** My two favorite people in Seoul were Lydia and Young Mo. Lydia because she was the sweetest, nicest, most angelic being I had every known. Who happened to be beautiful. Young Mo, because he was…a man.

Young Mo was not particularly good-looking. He was 5’9” of a medium build. He did not possess anything special at first glance. What he did have, however, was presence. Though he was not from a wealthy family, nor educated at the expensive hag-wons (private tutoring institutions), his manners were perfect, he spoke intellectually, politely, but always humbly. He was simply a gentleman.

Young Mo was quiet, reserved, but when he spoke, he spoke with authority. He was only one year older than me, but I looked up to him as I never could with my own older brother. His character was like that of the heroes I read of all the time in books. I tried to hide my hero-worship as well as I could, during those months.

They were my two favorites, Lydia and Young Mo. It tore me apart when I discovered that there was something wrong in their relationship. They would never hang out with me if they knew the other already was with me.

With other people, this would not have bothered me that much. You have to understand, in all the time I knew Lydia, she had never, ever, not even once, shown a negative side to her. Do you know how hard and impossible that seems? She never showed anger, whether to me or another, never showed impatience, never displayed disgust with anything. Never said a harsh word. And unbelievably, she never showed the tiniest sign of selfishness. Are you believing this? The best of the “good” people I knew, showed this trait, however slight. But her? Not once. Even toward her own sibling, she was perfect. If I did not spend all that time with her, every day for those months, I would not believe it. But I did. And she really was like that. So it was terribly confusing when she did not want to come out when Young Mo was already with me. Even with this situation, she was not repulsed or angry at Young Mo, always had the best things to say about him, still the perfect angelic being. Who simply did not want to be with Young Mo and myself at the same time.

Reciprocally, Young Mo didn’t want to come out when Lydia was with me. He was a little less vocal in his compliments for Lydia, and I confess, I weighed his comments with hers, and I thought him lacking. This was the only thing I held against him.