November 15, 1983 Seoul, South Korea
Boiling water. It is such a mesmerizing thing…. watching a myriad of tiny bubbles form out of nothing from the bottom of the pan, billowing up through the water column with dozens of its friends and bursting forth with a puff of steam in its dying moment. It is one of the many reasons that since as long as I can remember, I have been drawn to watching things happen the kitchen. I would love to watch Mom cut with a knife, mix bread with her doughy hands, and cook things in steaming pots. It was a full sensory experience punctuated by the skill of a talented cook. The sound of a knife bearing down through a crisp carrot; the vivid palate of onions, leafy vegetables, eggplant, carrots, squash and potatoes diced and splayed for the pan; the lifting aroma of garlic, onion and grated ginger sautéing in a roasted sesame seed oil. And the taste… the taste! There are few human pleasures quite as desirable as an excellent meal.
So one fateful evening, Mom had started to cook dinner after a busy day in language school and left for a moment to go check on something elsewhere in the house. I knew that I was not allowed to be next to the stove, especially unattended, but my desire to see the cooking in action was greater than my three-year-old will to follow the rules. I fetched a three legged stool, pushed it over to the stove and carefully climbed up to the top of the stool where took my usual Korean position of squatting. As I was squatting there, watching the boiling action in the pan before me, I heard Mom’s voice call out from behind. “Joel David!” Quickly, and without thought, I tried to hop off the stool. Unfortunately, this was a three legged stool, and as I jumped, the stool simply fell out from under me. I found myself in free fall, and in an instant, one of my arms caught the pot handle slightly sticking out over the edge of the stove. A split second later, I landed chest first on the kitchen floor with the boiling contents of water and macaroni spilling onto my back. “DAVID!” Mom called out with one of those other-than-human sounds that imprint the emotion of the moment into your memory. Dad rushed in and took note of what happened. In one fell swoop he picked me up and charged to the bathroom, turning on the shower and plugging the bathtub to fill with cold water. The boiling water had soaked into my shirt and pants, and Dad quickly removed my shirt as the cold water poured down on top of me. I protested my father’s actions! First I was burned and now I was going to be thrown into a freezing cold bath, and I didn’t see the point of needing an ice bath at this moment in time at all. I remember hitting the water and taking the short stuttered breaths that accompany a dive into cold water. I struggled to escape, but Dad was unrelenting. He pushed and held me down into the water even as the spigot flowed more cold water into the tub. Then suddenly, in a mixture of boiling, freezing and pain, I passed out. We would find out later, that Dad’s act was instrumental in saving my life, the first of several circumstances God would use to save me. Continue reading “{South Korea} Finding God in Rough Places” →