Yes -- it's true. I, a self-avowed seafood snob, who won't touch anything that came out of the ocean unless it's drizzled in lemon sauce and named 'salmon', absolutely and entirely enjoyed the squid pancakes. I know, I know. It's taken me some time to come to terms with liking weird food too. But it's what was placed in front of me - by an amazing chef, no less - so I ate it and trusted in them and it was delicious.
***
I've been called to the Seoul Korea mission. It's an impossible feat to describe in a few sentences how joyful, nervous, peaceful and ecstatic this makes me feel. I know that there is work for me (and on me!) to be done there. And by 'work done on me', I don't mean that staple of Korean culture, plastic surgery. I mean that I have a lot of growing to do and things to learn and testimony to build. I know that it will be not only a time of great spiritual growth for people I may teach, but also a time of great spiritual growth for me personally.
***
I consider the term 'growing up' to be inaccurate. It's supposed to mean maturation, but any tree can grow up and easily be blown over. Weeds grow up, but are easily pulled up. When trees grow, they do indeed 'grow up'; but it's a superficial growth, because without roots dug deep there is no promise that the tree will stay planted. I believe that 'growing down' is a more accurate term. Growing down means becoming stable, sated, finding nourishment, more prepared to receive light.
Just getting my call has grown me down. It's a story for another time, but I dug my heels in when I got the prompting to submit my mission papers. I didn't want to leave what I had. What I had was good. What I had was great. I was in college, had made it into one of the best choirs, had amazing friends. I did not want to give my life up to go to Bozeman, Montana and feel rejected every day.
And that was part of the problem. See, I'm not only a seafood snob; I'm a shoe snob, a clothes snob, a place snob, and a comfort zone snob. Going on a mission would upset all of these snobberies. I was resigned to going to the Midwest -- maybe even Utah, where I was sure no one needed to hear the gospel -- then returning to college and living out my days as a lonely spinster with clothes two years out of date. Putting in my papers brought a sense of relief and joy. I was excited that I had followed the promptings I had felt. But it was also a sense of, well, 'what the heck did I just do to myself?'
Like most other pre-missionaries, I thought going foreign might be nice. But I treated it as a foregone conclusion that I was going to the Midwest. And worse, I thought that was a bad thing! Like I said, I'm a place snob. My family travels a lot. And not to Indiana.
I was talking to my friend who had already served and mentioned that I was probably going to go to the Midwest, in a defeated and world-weary tone of voice. He paused a minute then gently reminded me that he had gone to Nebraska. I felt terrible. Who was I to disparage what had been one of the greatest times of his life? He told me how at first he had been disappointed, but once he had gotten into the field he realized just how much he loved the people. He told me that missionaries are like keys, made to fit the locks that are like people searching for the gospel. It has to be exactly the right key and exactly the right lock. No other key and no other lock would work together. (I have a sassy internal dialogue and I almost asked him about master keys, which fit many locks, but then I realized that there's only one true Master key -- God knows how to speak to all of us.)
***
This changed my perspective completely. Somewhere in the Midwest I was going to find someone who had waited their entire life to hear the gospel, and because of my specific personality and history and lifestyle, I was the one with the tools to teach it to them. That was a very special feeling to me. I felt a great sense of peace steal over me, as great senses of peace often do. Wherever I went would be perfect for me. It was suddenly about the people, not the place. I grew down and felt rooted in the realization that God had a perfect plan set up already.
Which is all well and good, but my fingers still shook as I opened my call. I had complete trust in God and where he would send me and I would be overjoyed and blessed to go anywhere. Getting my call was already a blessing. But now I was concerned with having every tool at my disposal to be the perfect key. So when I read Seoul, Korea, it didn't register at first.
I don't speak Korean! I'm strawberry blonde and don't like seafood! I don't even know where South Korea is! Aren't they next door to those nuts who got The Interview cancelled through the sheer force of their nasty personality?
That was the first coherent internal dialogue I had. I was completely shellshocked. Going foreign hadn't even crossed my mind as a possibility. It had taken me time to cast off my place snobbery, but I had done it. Letting go of some of my pride and small-mindedness had been hard. And now I wasn't even GOING to Wisconsin?
But when I read 'Seoul' -which I mispronounced - I felt a great measure of peace stealing over me again. Seoul is exactly the right place for me. Unexpected, sure. Full of food that should have stayed in the ocean's hellish depths, sure. But perfect? Absolutely. I know there are people waiting to hear the gospel in Seoul. People who I can get through to because I am a unique child of God. At the risk of sounding like a special snowflake, because of my unique trials and challenges, I can reach some people in ways that others can't, just as my companion will connect better with some of our other investigators. Each of us is a wonderful, unique being. Some of the best advice I have gotten so far about serving is 'play to your strengths. They may not be the same as someone else's, but they are still strengths, and you will need them.'
Although I had been well prepared to go to Michigan or Illinois or Ohio, that wasn't where I'm meant to go. It had taken me effort to accept God's ways rather than my own, and finally I was completely open to His plans. Going to Korea was unexpected, but it gave me roots; it grew me down into the realization that God does know where I'm meant to go.
***
I love pancakes. Blueberry, chocolate chip, fluffy, apple, buttermilk pancakes. I will eat them all, possibly in one sitting. They're like manna. A doughy gift from above. Pancakes are amazing, man. They're familiar and don't require adapting your taste buds. You can make them yourself and eat them in your house, in your comfort zone, with a nice American fork.
I went over to the house of some wonderful members, one of whom had been on a mission to Korea, to try out some Korean dishes. Kimchi, check. Rice, check. Rice with chopsticks, debatable. Pancakes? Cool. Korea isn't so different from America. So I took a bite.
They were squid pancakes. Just the thought of eating squid, for some weird, white American reason, makes my stomach churn. But I loved them. They were fantastic. Years of training my parents to never make me eat weird food, wasted.
The pancakes were unexpected. They had a weird texture and an unfamiliar taste. They were like alien food to me; I had never eaten anything remotely like them. But I loved them. They may not have been good ol' American style buttermilk pancakes, which is what I was ready and eager to eat. Which is what I have eaten all my life and love. I would have been happy with buttermilk, if that's what had been prepared for me. But I got squid pancakes. It's what the experienced chef place in front of me. I was concerned about the kimchi, but it was delicious, and so despite my own inhibitions I trusted in the chef when I got squid pancakes.
Seoul is my squid pancake. And confession time: I loved the squid pancakes.
No comments:
Post a Comment