Michael Jackson Feet, Things that Hide in Soup, and more Fun

Okay, so my theory was that since I have to wear slippers inside of the school anyway, who would care what kind of socks I wore? I slipped into my black pants, pulled on some white cotton socks, and stepped into my black shoes. It wasn't until halfway to school that I noticed my pants were hiking up, exposing my white socks. I tried to shimmy the pants down a little bit, but gave it up as a lost cause. Give me a white glove and I could have Michael Jackson'd it all the way to school and back. It didn't help to see that everyone at school wore socks to match their pants. However, since I am the only foreigner at that school, I decided to ignore it. After all, I don't know all of their social customs yet, and many of them don't know U.S.A. fashion sense (i.e. black pants, white socks, and black shoes).

The fifth grade teachers took me and my co-teachers out to lunch at an eel-soup restaraunt. Go ahead and read that last sentence twice if you need to. Eel soup. There were two tanks full of eels in front of the shop. When a customer orders, the cook reaches out the window, grabs an eel, and gets to work. It was very interesting. There were four men and four women, including me. The men all sat together at one end of the table with women on the other. We sat on the floor. In the big cities like Seoul and Mokpo, it is considered a special treat to go to a traditional style restaraunt complete with low tables and all the floor space you could want. However, out here in Nok-dong, you're schmoozing it up if you're at a restaraunt with chairs.

So, the cook brought out the little dish of rice, four side-dishes, and a giant bowl of eel soup for each person. I stirred the soup with my chopsticks.

I like eel. I do. I eat it all the time in sushi, in small, bite-sized pieces.

This soup had chunks. It looked like the cook chopped up a whole eel into three-inch long pieces and tossed it into the soup. The skin, fins, bones, and innards were still there. I ate very carefully, ready to scream if I saw a head.

It actually didn't taste too bad. It was spicy, of course, but quite delicious. I dodged the larger chunks of eel and ate kimchi instead.

After lunch, the male teacher wearing a purple shirt took me, my co-teacher, and another female teacher out to Sorok-do, a small island that houses a leper colony. Non-residents are only allowed on the island between 6am and 6pm. Purple Shirt explained that this was so the lepers could come out at night without people gawking at them. Yikes. The island was also where the Japanese tortured Koreans during the 1930's. I'm not sure exactly why, as the language barrier seems to rise and fall at odd times, but Purple Shirt made it very clear that the Japanese are not welcome. So, we walked around the sonamu (pine tree) garden, I in my Michael Jackson feet and button-up shirt. Purple Shirt kindly gave me an umbrella and a fan with four white girls wearing T-shirts and panties. No one else found this odd, so I didn't comment.

I didn't bring my camera, or I would have taken photos. The trees are amazing. They are tended by the lepers themselves. There is a pine tree that has grown all crooked and gnarled, due to lack of proper nutrients, Purple Shirt said. He explained that if the tree had the proper nutrients, it would have grown straight up. But, because of the poor soil, it grew into a beautiful, strange tree. The garden also contained a statue of Christ on the cross, a statue of an angel ("the leprosy go away angel," I was told) and a few monuments to people I don't know and couldn't read anyway.

Then, we went back to the school and I read over some lesson plans.

Walking home, I ignored my Michael Jackson feet and imagined eating a peanut butter and jelly sandwich.

It's funny how much I took for granted until eel soup stared me in the face.

I'm a Stranger in a Strange Land

And I get stranger every day. I cheerfully call out Korean greetings to perfect strangers. I eat tiny little crabs, shell and all, like they were M&M's. I play impromptu games of charades and pictionary to describe things like "bathroom" (called "toilet" here), "light bulb", and "peanut butter." When standing on the sidewalk, I've taken to resting my weight on the balls of me feet to avoid the motorcycle that inevitably decides to use the sidewalk to get around traffic. I turn a blind eye to the old man relieving himself in someone's vegetable patch (to be fair, it might have been his own vegetable patch). I eat from the same plate as perfect strangers and barely wonder what kind of sicknesses I could be catching. I don't even blink at the buckets of sweat dripping off me and gratefully take a "tiss" (tissue) to wipe it off my face.

Saturday, with no internet, I couldn't look online to see where my ward would be. Thankfully, my friend teaching in Incheon manged to get ahold of the sister missionaries and skyped me information.

So, Sunday morning, I woke up bright and early at 6:00 am, got dressed, ate some breakfast, and trudged the twenty five minute walk to the bus terminal in the rain. (Thanks for the boots, Lil' Sis.) After a quick game of "Guess where I want to go?", I got a ticket to Suncheon and boarded the bus. It took 1 1/2 hours to get to Suncheon. I kept falling asleep then jerking awake at each stop, certain that I had missed Suncheon and was now somewhere in North Korea. Let me tell you, living in Utah has really spoiled me for the rest of the world. I am much too accustomed to an LDS wardhouse on every corner. It will take a lot of determination to spend 3 hours total going to and from church, instead of the 2 minutes I am used to. The sister missionariees met me at the bus station and walked me to church.

Oh my goodness, it was small. I should have expected it to be tiny, as Korea is low on available building space, but I was still shocked. The church building was three (maybe four?) stories high with perhaps 5 or 6 small rooms on each floor. The chapel was located on the top floor. The room was about 1/4 the size of the average chapel in the U.S. That was okay, though, because there were only about 25 people there. They were extremely excited to see me, as I make person number 26.

Sister Kelly, the missionary from LA, sat next to me and translated. Apparently, they are looking to get 100 people coming to church, as that would turn their branch into a ward. From what I understand, the LDS people are considered a cult here, because we do not pay people to go out and find new members. So, volunteering = cult. It seemed odd to me, too.

Boy, do they love to sing. In our orientation class, we had been told several times that Koreans love to sing. And they do. The twenty five people belted out their Korean Hymns like it was a contest - the loudest singer gets a free snow cone and a puppy. On top of that, most of them sang on pitch. I sort of just hummed along and will continue to do so until I can read Hanguel.

I went back to the bus terminal by myself. Sister Kelly gave me directions and I sort of wandered around until a kind Korean man and wife took pity on me. I stopped at the crosswalk, looking rather pathetic as I wondered how to find bus 77 to take me back to the bus station.

"You Christian?"

I turned. The man, dressed in one of those popular shiney, silver suits, pointed to my scriptures.

"Yes, I am," I said. "I'm just coming from church."
"Ah, me too. Her too." He pointed to his wife, smiling behind him. "Which church?"

"The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter Day Saints," I said automatically. He looked blank, so I added, "The Mormon church."

He shook his head. "Sorry, my English not so good. Which church?"

I held up my scriptures and pointed to the words "Book of Mormon."

"Ah, yes!" he said, sort of pumping his fist. "I meet Paul and he tell me all about it."

Now it was my turn to look blank. "Paul?"

"Paul Elder."

Lightbulb. "Oh, a missionary?"

He nodded. "Very nice man, very nice."

The conversation sort of halted, so I held up my written directions from Sister Kelly. "Can you tell me how to get to bus 77?"

He lit up like a Christmas tree. "Bus 77? Follow me."

He stepped out onto the crosswalk, oblivious to the traffic. I paused, watching with a sort of horrified awe as his wife followed and the cars actually stopped! They never stop for me! I hurried after him and he and his wife walked me to the bus stop.

"What is your phone number?" he asked.

I shrugged. "I don't have a phone yet."

Every Korean person who discovers I don't have a cell phone seems to think it is the end of the world. They always get this consoling look on their face, as if they don't know if they should buy a sympathy card and flowers for me or just not mention it.
"I have to get my ARC first, then I can get a hand phone," I said.

His wife patted his arm and I assume she understood enough English to know what had just happened.

"Then how can I contact you?" the old man asked mournfully.

That threw me for a loop. I usually don't have people clamoring for my phone number. "Uh, well, if you are here next week at around the same time, I should be here, too."

He grinned and bowed. "Nice to meet you," he said.

"Kamsahamnida," I replied, bowing back.
Then they walked away and I got on the bus.

During the ride back to my apartment, I kept thinking about those 25 people singing their lungs out in the chapel. What faith it must take to be a Christian in Korea, and an LDS Christian at that. Their strength of character and solid determination is very inspiring. I hope I don't disappoint them.

Arrival

The Boeing 777 airplane was filled to the brim with Koreans. I sat by the window with the head of a Korean teenager bouncing on and off my shoulder as he fell asleep and woke up, apologizing every few seconds. Any attempt to explain that the headrest will actually bend to keep this from happening was misunderstood, so I just stopped trying. As the plane began its descent to the Seoul Incheon Airport, I slid open the shade to the round window and looked down. White boats dotted the ocean. The shadow of the teal plane swam over the waves like a great whale swimming for shore. Dark green islands mounded out of the water, each surrounded by a ring of beaches.
The plane landed with the usual bumps and thumps, inciting the girl in the seat directly in front of me to begin puking up her lunch and dinner. Despite the Sea-bands on my wrists, I felt my stomach clench. She filled up her bag, her father's bag, and I hastily handed her my bag, which she also managed to fill. I hadn't been able to sleep on the plane, so I stood in a daze, gathered my two bags, and stumbled off the plane.
Wet heat settled on my head, shoulders, back, legs, and arms. Breathing was a struggle. My lungs were not accustomed to separating the oxygen from the water in the air. The loudspeakers in the airport kindly directed the passengers in Korean, Japanese, Chinese, and English. I followed the crowd down the hallway, eschewing the walking sidewalk, glancing at the "Korea Sparkling" posters on the wall, and trying to remain steady on my feet. What felt like three miles later, I saw the glass-cubed walls of the customs desks.
I stood in the line for foreigners and readied my passport and declaration card. The line was long and slow-moving. I heard people speaking French, German, Japanese, and English, although the majority around us spoke Korean. I looked over the heads of the (relatively) short people ahead of me and watched as the man checking passports sent people to the back of the line or to another line. Sweat dripped down my neck and face, plastering my T-shirt to my back and pulling my jeans low on my hips. My shoulder bag pulled on my right shoulder and the book bag couldn't manage to release its strain. I kept glancing at my watch, wondering if I would be in line so long I would miss my flight from Gimpo to Gwangju. But, no, finally it was my turn.
"Annyeongseyo," I said, trying out one of the two Korean words I know as I handed him my passport and declaration card.
He scowled at me and flipped open my passport. Immediately, I felt stupid. Had I said it wrong? Had I just insulted him? Was he going to kick me out of Korea because he knew I couldn't speak Korean?
He flipped to the Visa page. "You are here to teach English?" he barked.
Startled, I nodded and treated his question as a request. "Yes, please."
He scanned my passport number and then peered at the picture. "Hat off."
I reached up and took off my hat. I'm sure it looked as though I had a hot, wet washrag on my head. I could feel the hair sticking to my forehead, temples and neck. My hair dripped.
"Hmm," he looked at the passport, looked at me, looked back at the passport.
I smiled. He frowned and shook his head. I stopped smiling. My had crept into my shoulder bag, searching frantically for the contract in case he didn't believe my very believable Visa.
He flipped my passport onto the counter and jerked his head. "Goodbye."
"Ah, yes," I scooped it up and bowed slightly. "Kamsahamida."
I took the stairs to the lower level and snagged a cart for my luggage. After loading the two fifty-pound suitcases onto the small wheeled cart, I exchanged money at the money counter and made an attempt to find the bus to Gimpo Airport. I held the instructions from Canadian Connections in one hand and the envelope of money in the other as I pushed my cart, looking for gate B4.
"You take a taxi?"
Startled, I jerked to a stop. "Um, no. A bus."
The Korean man looked up at me and shook his head. "Taxi better. Get you there faster."
"Yeah, I'll just take the bus," I said. "Do you know where gate B4 is?"
"Taxi cheaper. Taxi better."
"That's okay," I said and wheeled away.
"You take a taxi?"
"What?" I snapped, certain he followed me.
"You take a taxi?"
It was a different guy. He gestured to my luggage and pointed outside. "Taxi cheap."
I was hot, tired, and looking for gate B4. I frowned at him, straightened my shoulders, and loomed.
"I'm. Taking. The. Bus." I pointed outside as a bus zoomed by. "The. Bus. Not a taxi."
He actually backed up a step or two. "Buses outside," he said, helpfully, and scurried away.
I managed to catch the bus, make it to Gimpo Airport, and arrive in Gwangju safely. Once we checked into the hotel room, I showered, fell onto the firm bed, and passed out.

Departure

Mr. Million and Chi came over on Monday to help pack. I sat in the living room with all of my clothing and accoutrements strewn all over and watched as Lil' Sis, Chi, Mr. Million and Mom packed everything in my two suitcases. I felt stretched and brittle, tears threatening to blind me as we debated which shirts to leave home and which to take.

Wednesday, I said goodbye to Mom, trying not to cry, because if I started I knew I wouldn't go. Poochie seemed bewildered. She stayed under the table, her tail thumping hesitantly as I scratched her ears and told her I'd be back.

"Open this over the Pacific Ocean," Mom said, pressing an envelope in my hand.

I took it and shoved it in my bag, nodding. "I will."

Then I left, ripping off a Goodbye like a sticky band-aid. I waved to Mom as she stood in the car headlights. I don't know if she could see it or not.

We picked up Mr. Million and drove to the airport. After baggage check, we sat behind the stairs as I fiddled with the sea-bands rumored to stave off motion-sickness. (Note: They really work. I didn't throw up once.)

Then upstairs to the security check. Lil' Sis and Mr. Million couldn't go through security as they did not have a boarding pass. We hugged goodbye, tears pricking my eyes red. Another fast Goodbye and I moved to the line.

"We'll wait until you get through security," Lil' Sis said.

I craned over the heads of people behind me, trying to see them. I caught a glimpse of Mr. Million's hat, the sleeve of Lil' Sis' shirt. I blinked and the crowd parted for a moment. The last image was Lil' Sis smiling at something Mr. Million had said. Then the gap closed and I moved forward.

I sat in my window seat and looked out the window. The plane took off and I stared through blurry eyes at the familiar roads. Flickering like a firefly was the thought that if I had sat on the other side, I could see the roof of my house. There's Bangerter Highway, there's 4100 South, there;s I-215, there's the Jordan River. And there's Utah Lake, reflecting the sky like a broken mirror, clouds rippling across the silver-blue surface. Then the plane lifted higher until I could see nothing but white. So I closed the window and shut my eyes.

Lil' Sis' Amazing Talking Hands

Lil' Sis talks with her hands. I don't mean a gesture here and there to make a point, but a full-blown, hand-waving symphony for her own voice, conducted by her own hands. To be fair, she doesn't do it all the time. I notice it at work, where I sit next to her in our little gray cubicles, tethered to a computer by a headset designed by someone with no concept of "head" or "set" and how they should fit together. Lil' Sis perches on the edge of her chair, elbows on the desk, hands moving back and forth like a Tai Chi master. It is as if she moves the air in front of her, it will somehow push her words into the microphone and find that small, reasonable part of the caller's brain that everyone (supposedly) has. The more difficult the caller, the more hand-speech is involved. At times, when her mouth isn't moving, Lil' Sis' hands will alight on the keyboard to type in information. Occasionally, her right hand will click the mouse while her left hand independently churns the air.
I have long since believed that if she had no hands, she would lose half of her vocabulary.
Her hands have quite a way to get the point across.
Take today for instance; While driving home, I saw a yellow Volkswagon Bug. In compliance with all car games, I immediately pinched Lil' Sis twice with a "Tweet! Tweet!" to signify that I saw the yellow car first, and then repeatedly hit her on the knee while chirping, "Buggy car! Guess what color?"
Without hesitation or any warning, she whipped around and slugged me in the arm.
"Yellow!" she shouted.
I immediately stopped hitting her knee. It wasn't very hard, as my arm went numb from the shoulder down. It was a perfect knuckle shot to the shoulder - I could practically hear my muscle scream in protest.
"Ow! Ouch! Owie!" I shouted.
"Oh, I'm sorry!" Lil' Sis exclaimed, immediately contrite. "You can hit me back if you want!"
Tempting as it was, I declined the offer. "No, thanks. There's no sense in both of us being in pain," I gritted out.
That's what I said, but what I meant was, "No, thanks. I don't think there is any possible way for me to hit you quite as hard as you have hit me."
Maybe next time, I should let my hands do the talking.

Left-Handedness

I've been writing with my left hand again. With a pen. It's an awkward setup and causes my fingers to cramp as they curl around the pen's smooth surface and force it across the paper, leaving wounded letters in its wake.
This proclivity to write with either hand began at a young age, shortly after learning that Mom used to be left-handed before being forced to write solely with her write hand. I remember fisting my hand around a crayon and pushing it across the paper - then straining to recognize the misshapen letters. I learned the word 'ambidextrous' and fought with it, twisting and poking at it in an attempt to wrap it like a brace around my subordinate hand. I wrote my name with my right hand and compared it to the scrawls my left hand abandoned on the paper, irrespective of lines or margins. Eventually, I gave up, dismayed at my utter lack of ability, and focused on forming right-handed letters only.
However, like a chronic disease, this left-handed inclination flares up, exhibiting itself in grocery lists, notes written in meetings, and my name spelled over and over. It has gone so far as to infect Lil' Sis, and now, she and I will write notes back and forth with our left hands. The letters are never perfect, but are now recognizable.
I struggle with subjects to write with my left hand. Any creativity I possess seems to reside in my write hand, leaving my other hand the more mundane tasks of copying lists, names, and short dialogues. At some point in the last month, I applied creative writing to my ambidexterity and began re-writing the story of the Three Billy Goats Gruff. I realize that this is - at best - nothing more than fairy tale cannibalism, but it is a start.
Someday, I hope to use both hands interchangeably. Until then, I will ride this left-handed propensity until it ebbs and wait for the next round.
And if you receive a note that appears to be written by a five-year-old, yet has my name on the bottom, just assume that I am practicing again and write back - preferably with your left hand.

Sunday Talk

Last Sunday, our bishop caught me in the hall and asked me to prepare a talk for today about overcoming challenges. This is what I came up with. Enjoy!

When I was in the first grade, my teacher, Mrs. Nelson, brought an incubator into class. Inside, she placed six chicken eggs, telling us children that in a few weeks, we would be able to watch the chicks hatch. Every morning, we crowded around the incubator, jostling elbows and treading toes in our excitement. We stared at the silent eggs under the heat lamps and speculated on arrival dates, gender, and - most importantly - the names of the chicks, while willing time to fly faster. Finally, in the middle of learning that four plus four did, in fact, equal eight, a startled shriek of "It's hatching! It's hatching!" interrupted the lesson. Chairs squealed as twenty four children pushed away from their desks and mobbed the incubator. A ragged hole marred the smooth surface of the egg, a small beak barely visible.
"It's done," a classmate said. "Let's get it out."
Amid a chorus of assent, small helpful hands reached for the egg, but Mrs. Nelson quickly intervened.
"The chick must do it by himself," she said. Then, anticipating the next question, added, "If the chicken can overcome this first challenge, then he will be strong enough to survive."
"What if it CAN'T?!"
Mrs. Nelson shrugged with previously unseen callousness. "Then he will die."
Gasps of horror filled the room as we contemplated the death of our baby chick, perhaps in a fiery explosion of feathers and eggshell. Eventually, Mrs. Nelson convinced us that it would be best for us to only observe and hope VERY hard that the chick could break out of its shell. After twenty minutes of whispered encouragement, the chick flopped out, wet and exhausted, but very much alive.
The class erupted in cheers, each of us inordinately proud of the baby chick's first triumph and secure in the knowledge that the chick would be fine.
After returning to our seats, Mrs. Nelson again impressed upon us the importance of allowing the chicks to hatch unaided.
"Remember, strength comes from adversity," she said, before turning back to simple addition.
Goliath was a large man. Being a champion of the Philistines, he cowed King Saul and his Israelite army, towering over normal men by three and a half feet. With is head-to-toe armor, super-sized spear, and personal shield carrier, he presented enough of a challenge to keep the Israelites hiding behind rocks, trees, scrub-brush, and whatever other cover they could find.
In First Samuel 17:8-9, Goliath shouted to the Israelites, "Choose you a man for you, and let him come down unto me. If he be able to fight with me, and to kill me, then will we be your servants: but if I kill him, then shall ye be our servants, and serve use."
Instead of emboldening King Saul and his army, they were dismayed and greatly afraid.
How does one bring down the biggest challenge in the immediate area, knowing that it must be a one-on-one fight and that if you lose, you will lose your life and your family and friends will lose their freedom?
As it turns out, all you need is a sling, a couple of smooth stones, and a boy to wield it - a boy named David who knew without a shadow of a doubt that Heavenly Father not only supported him, but would lend him the strength to overcome the mighty Goliath.
In First Samuel 17: 45 & 47, "Then said David to [Goliath] the Philistine, Thou comest to me with a sword, and with a spear, and with a shield: but I come to thee in the name of the Lord of hosts, the God of the armies of Israel, whom thou has defied . . . And all this assembly shall know that the Lord saveth not with the sword and spear: for the battle is the Lord's, and he will give you into our hands."
And then David accomplished with only a sling, one stone, and a powerful faith in God what no man in the Israelite Army with their shields and swords could overcome; He slew Goliath and won victory for King Saul.
Could David have defeated Goliath without the Lord's help? Unlikely. David was neither naive nor foolhardy enough to believe he could overcome this monstrous challenge on his own. He had faith that the Lord would not abandon him - that God would strengthen his arm and guide the stone to its target.
It may seem to some that the Lord allowed the Israelites to win the hard way. Why not have God take care of Goliath and the Philistine army himself? After all, it would be easy enough for the skies to darken, rain to fall, and a bolt of lightening to zero in on all of Goliath's metal accessories and light him up like the Fourth of July. God could then shout down from the heavens something along the lines of how all the Philistines need to leave right now and that, by the way, David would be Mr. Popular from now on.
However, just as God cannot make our choices for us, he cannot remove our challenges from us. Our challenges, whether they be physical or emotional, large or small, are placed in our way to help us grow. This does not necessarily mean that if you do not overcome the challenge, win the race, or pass the test that your growth stops. We learn from our challenges - both the ones we overcome and the ones to which we succumb. Confidence and skills increase with success while humility and wisdom increase with failure. It is important to know that the Lord will stand by us and support us despite the final outcome.
Challenges are wildly diverse and specific to each individual and situation. They may be as complex as an illness, poverty, a failed or unhappy marriage, wayward children, war, natural disasters, or persecution. They may be as simple as getting to work on time, speaking kindly to siblings, doing homework, avoiding inappropriate media, walking the dog, a broken fingernail, or giving a talk on Sunday. Through it all, the Lord is available and willing to lend his support. Our challenges, big or small, win or lose, are only as much as we can handle. As it says in Mosiah 4:2 ". . . it is not requisite that a man should run faster than he has strength . . ." The Lord will never give us a challenge that we cannot endure and overcome with his help.
During the winter of 1777, outnumbered, under-supplied, and discouraged, General George Washington led his ragged Revolutionary army to Valley Forge. There, camped in the cold snow, enduring hunger and illness, they waited for the tide of war to either turn to their advantage, or completely destroy their revolutionary ideals. If the revolution proved to be successful, they would be hailed as heroes. If it failed, every Revolutionary would be hung as traitors to the crown. With this huge responsibility on his shoulders, General Washington knew that only Heavenly Father could help them wind independence from an unjust king.
Following is an account related to Reverend Snowden by a Mr. Potts: He [Mr. Potts] said, ". . . I never believed that America c'd proceed against Great Britain whose fleets and armies covered the land and ocean, but something very extraordinary converted me to the Good Faith!" "What was that?" I [Rev. Snowden] inquired. "Do you see that woods, and that plain. It was about a quarter of a mile off from the place we were riding, as it happened. There," said he [Mr. Potts], "laid the army of Washington. It was a most distressing time of ye war, and all were for giving up the Ship but that great and good man. In that woods pointing to a close in view, I heard a plaintive sound as, of a man at prayer. I tied my horse to a sapling and went quietly into the woods and to my astonishment I saw the great George Washington on his knees alone, with his sword on one side and his cocked hat on the other. He was at Prayer to the God of the Armies, beseeching to interpose with his Divine aid, as it was ye Crisis, and the cause of the country, of humanity and of the world.
"Such a prayer I never heard from the lips of man. I left him alone praying.
"I went home and told my wife. I saw a sight and heard today what I never saw or heard before, and just related to her what I had seen and heard and observed. We never thought a man c'd be a soldier and a Christian, but if there is one in the world, it is Washington. She was also astonished. We thought it was the cause of God, and America could prevail." (from www.revolutionary-war-and-beyond.com/prayer-at-valley-forge.html)
The Lord answered General Washington's prayer. The following spring brought the arrival of Baron von Steuben to train the troops and new allies from France, both of which helped the newly formed United States of America win freedom.
I would like to read the verses to hymn number 120, Lean on My Ample Arm:
1. Lean on my ample arm, O thou depressed!
And I will bid the storm Cease in thy breast.
Whate’er thy lot may be On life’s complaining sea,
If thou wilt come to me, Thou shalt have rest.
If thou wilt come to me, Thou shalt have rest.
2. Lift up thy tearful eyes, Sad heart, to me;
I am the sacrifice Offered for thee.
In me thy pain shall cease, In me is thy release,
In me thou shalt have peace Eternally.
In me thou shalt have peace Eternally.
Text: Theodore E. Curtis, 1872–1957
Music: Evan Stephens, 1854–1930
Our Heavenly Father is there, ready and willing to aid us with any and all challenges that we may come across. Though we may not personally experience challenges that will affect the fate of an entire nation, such as those faced by David and George Washington, we need to know that the Lord will love and support us so that, like the baby chick, we can break out of our shell - piece by piece - and emerge strong, faithful, and able to overcome new challenges. I say these things in the name of Jesus Christ, Amen.