Becoming a Writer

The past several months have brought considerable change in my life. September 30^th was my last day working at Every Home for Christ. I left on good terms, and although two or three co-workers questioned my decision to quit during such a poor economy, I was blessed with the support of my friends and family. I had enough of a financial buffer to go a few lean months without a job, and I was looking forward to some time to pray, seek God’s vision for the future, and write.*

I have decided to become a writer.

For many, this so-called “decision” will sound a bit silly. After all, I’ve been writing (although not finishing) novels since I was in junior high. I have a degree in English. I read a lot, and then I talk a lot about what I read. Of course I’m a writer!

But there has always been a safety net, one which isn’t immediately apparent to others. You wouldn’t know it, but somewhere in the back of my mind, I am whispering to myself, It doesn’t really matter. I enjoy writing, but it’s just a hobby. I’m only playing.

This shrinking away—where nobody knows it but me—keeps me safe if I fail, protects me from the vulnerability of full commitment. Secretly, I have been holding out.

I’m tempted to wait until I know I’m a writer, deep in my gut. I want 100% certainty. I want a renowned writer to press his hallowed fountain pen into my hand and pronounce, “Son, you’ve got what it takes.”

Unfortunately, this mystical passage into writerdom has yet to take place. “I am a writer” is a statement I can only breach with a deep breath and a running start. I’ve read dozens of interviews with writers, and they all say the same thing: insecurity is part of the job. Even after being published, many writers wonder if it was a fluke. The more writers I read, the more I realize that the only thing uniting them is a decision to write, a decision that has to be made day after day after day.

I am a better writer than most people I know, a sentiment that sounds proud until you consider that your garbage collector is a better garbage collector than most people he knows. But I am not a better writer than most people I read, which is where insecurity comes in.

Not to mention the social implications.

Every time someone asks me what I’m doing these days, it’s with a certain sheepishness that I admit I’m working on a novel. I’m afraid they might associate me with that pale dude who lives in his parents’ basement, constantly mentions dead writers, and sometimes wears a Batman onesie. (Wait a second… that’s me.)

Consider: I am 25 and living with my parents. I am 25 and single. I am 25, and I just quit my full-time job with benefits to work at a coffee shop and write a novel. From day to day, I can hardly keep up the confidence that I am doing something worthwhile, let alone explain this to someone else.

The greatest encouragement I’ve found comes from (surprise!) Flannery O’Connor. She writes in a letter to a friend, “No matter how just the criticism, any criticism at all which depresses you to the extent that you feel you cannot ever write anything worth anything is from the Devil and to subject yourself to it is for you an occasion of sin. In you, the talent is there and you are expected to use it. Whether the work itself is completely successful, or whether you ever get any worldly success out of it, is a matter of no concern to you… You [must write only] for the sake of returning your talent increased to the invisible God to use or not use as he sees fit. Resignation to the will of God does not mean that you stop resisting evil or obstacles, it means that you leave the outcome out of your personal considerations.”

I could write an entire blog on this idea alone, but I believe that we will all be held responsible for what we have been given. Whether it is much or little, we must all bear increase to God. That’s why I have chosen to be a writer. I’ve allowed ample time for the desire to desert me, time to realize that writing was merely a schoolboy’s dream. I don’t know that I am “called” to be a writer. But this desire, and the skills the desire has honed, aren’t going away.

So I choose. And I am thankful for the grace God has given me to keep that choice, with the encouragement of my friends and family.

Choosing to pursue writing has been difficult—more than I expected. But it is a choice I am free to make, whereas other choices have not been opened to me. I have been reading Ecclesiastes, a book of unlikely comforts, and it reminds me that we go through seasons. Yes, I have decided to become a writer, but I will not always have 10 hours a week to write. Seasons change. I hope to get married someday (soon?!) and have kids.

But I have been given this space, today, to write—and I don’t want to have to give an explanation as to why I squandered this time. Life offers seductive halls of ornate locked doors, all of which must be ignored in favor of the few that are open.

The only commonality between writers is that they write. And I think by choosing to write—in whatever capacity I am able—I am entering territory that many so-called “writers” have declined to tread. (How many artists, intercessors, entrepreneurs have yet to follow the most basic necessities of their pursuits?) I must write. I must sit down before a literal computer and type physical keys, and through this process I must suffer the dry feeling that comes when all the advice and all the theory and all the mysticism surrounding this mysterious endeavor is peeled away. I am only writing.

I have committed to create for at least 10 hours every week, a goal I have only come short of twice. Most days I write for two hours—which takes three hours, because (similar to other important endeavors) the first step is to surmount the distractions, insecurities, and impediments to the work. This takes more or less time, depending on the day, but I do not include that extra time in my weekly count. If there seem to be fewer blogs lately, it is because I fear anything that might make me lose momentum on my novel. There are many momentum killers. I follow the advice my friend John Mark has posted next to his easel, which reads, “Don’t think. Just work.”

I don’t know if I will ever be published. I would love to sell millions of novels, to win a Nobel Prize for literature. Heck, I would love to get a good review on Amazon. But being published isn’t something I can decide. Writing is.

Of course, writing is but one of the many things I give myself to, all of whose outcomes “are best left out of my personal consideration.” To be a writer, or intercessor, or lover of God, or lover of people—these are decisions which must be reawakened each new day, dressed, and snapped to attention, to await what grace God will give.

*This is an impossibly brief recap of the past several months. I will probably write more soon. Blogs aren’t optimal for describing all that goes into a big life decision, but I’m happy to talk in other forms if you’d like to hear the full story.

Becoming Korean Part 4: Things You Don't Say to a Korean Momma

Never tell a Korean momma that you don’t feel good.

I walked into the Kim’s house last night with a sore throat and stuffy nose. When Joy, the mother of the house, asked how I was, I told her I was good but feeling a little sick.

Five seconds later she was pouring me a thick tan smoothie from the fridge. “Homemade!” she said. “Whole grain, vitamins, seafood!”

The moment I finished it, she swapped my empty glass for a full one, this one filled with a dark brown liquid. “Drink!” she commanded. As I raised it to my lips, she added, “Tastes bad!”

I hesitated, but she urged me on, and I took a sip. It did taste bad. I couldn’t nail down any of the flavors, and I didn’t have time to try, because Joy Kim was not done with me yet. Not by a long shot. She pressed her finger against the base of her throat and motioned for me to do the same. I did, pushing my finger into the soft space beneath my Adam’s apple.

“Press hard,” she said.

I shoved my finger deeper into my throat and tried not to wince. This was made more difficult when she insisted I continue drinking. Finger lodged deep, I tipped the cup back and downed the rest of my glass.

For a few minutes we made small talk. Much of our talk is small, even when I’m not cutting off my respiration. Mrs. Kim is not as good at English as Mrs. Choe last year. Talking with her is good practice for using short sentences and inventing new sign language. Here’s a short conversation I recently had with her:

Joy: “John Wesley?” [grins and nods vigorously]

Me: [nod]

Joy: “We see where he die.” [clutches throat and lolls head, still smiling]

Me: [smile]

Joy: “In Fiji…” [makes outline of an island] “…people eat… other people” [brings her arm to her mouth and gnaws, tilts head, smiles]

Me: “Yeah. Cannibals?”

Joy: “Yes, yes! Cannibals! John Wesley, they eat him.”

Me: [smile and nod]

When talking to Joy, I always feel a pressure to smile as big as she does. I don’t want to seem unengaged. After many grand attempts, however, I’ve decided that I simply cannot equal her smiling power.

Still standing in the kitchen, I tried removing my finger from my throat.

“Joshua,” she said, her voice stern. “Keep press.”

I keep press another five minutes.

While we talked small, she mentioned that she did acupuncture. I nodded and smiled, but then I realized she was offering to do it to me and I quickly said, “No, that’s okay.”

Disappointed, she released me to go tutor the students.

When I came back up an hour later, she asked, “You feel better?”

“A little,” I lied.

“Not better?” She seemed shocked. But then she smiled. “I do acupuncture after dinner.”

“Okay,” I said. Why did I say that? I don’t know.

“I put needle in throat and ear.”

“Okay,” I said.

She studied my face. “Fear?” she said.

“No.” I lied again.

Throat and ear? Before yesterday, I’d had no experience with acupuncture. The pictures I had seen were all of people lying facedown on a clean white sheet, needles protruding from their backs. On the list of places I wouldn’t want a needle, throat is third (eyes and crotch claiming gold and silver, respectively).

Dinner was a short reprieve from the building tension. We were having one of my favorite Korean meals—Bulgogi, a kind of Asian barbeque lettuce wrap. (Note: Don’t verify this definition with a Korean.)

Joy finished eating last, which meant that I had a lot of time to observe her deft use of chopsticks. I kept imagining her plunging one into my neck.

She ate with careless delight, and I began to hope she had forgotten. But after rinsing her plate, she washed her hands and said, “Ready?”

She motioned for me to wait on the couch, and a few minutes later she returned with a tray, loaded with foreign instruments and needles.

“Fear?” she asked again.

“No,” I laughed.

She gave me a container of vitamins, and I ate one. She gave me another container. I ate another vitamin. She gave me a small packet like one Americans would use for sweetener. I tore off the top and choked down a chalky substance. She gave me another packet, this one bigger. I tore off the top and tipped it back, spilling tiny beads into my mouth. She told me to hold them in my mouth for one minute, then chew and swallow. Then she added:

“In one half hour, you will… very sleepy time. Your nervous system… down.”

It was at this point that I began laughing uncontrollably. It was like a case of the laughing hiccups for the next fifteen minutes.

She prepared her instruments, removing tiny needles from a package as she described how she had learned acupuncture. “In Korea, I am healer,” she said. Later, she added, “I do five years ago.” I wasn’t sure if this specified the last time she’d done acupuncture, or the year she graduated from healing school in Korea.

“I learn healing from Dr. Wong,” she said.

Ah yes. Dr. Wong.

I know all about Dr. Wong.

Dr. Wong is to South Korea what Steve Jobs is to America. His name has popped up in conversation throughout the year I’ve worked with the Koreans, always spoken with a hushed sense of awe. Throughout the house, you will not find a single picture of the Kim family—but you will find several of Dr. Wong and his family. When you eat dinner, Dr. Wong looks over your shoulder like the dining room’s own personal Chairman Mao.

Somehow, Dr. Wong was the one who had taught Mrs. Kim acupuncture. I didn’t know what to feel about that.

“How does it work?” I asked.

She tilted her head, confused.

“The acupuncture. How does it work?”

“I don’t understand.”

“How do you do it?”

Nothing. I tried again. “What happens when you do the acupuncture?”

“Huh?”

“Like… what does it do to make health come back?”

“Oh!” she exclaimed. “It make blood cells come together and heal you.”

Thank you, Dr. Wong. I watched Joy compile the needles. Have you ever taken apart and reassembled a pen? It was kind of like that. She loaded each needle into a metal socket, and then affixed a spring over it, followed by a metal, torpedo-like canister. Each was about the length of my thumb.

Watching her, I felt myself getting light-headed, and I remembered how many times I’d passed out because of needles. (Three times. Twice while giving blood. Once in health class watching a video of a heroin addict shooting up.)

Assembly complete, she brought the first torpedo toward my neck. She whispered, “Very dangerous!”

I burst out laughing and pushed her hand away from my neck.

“I’m sorry,” I said, trying to calm down. She looked at me, confused. “I’m sorry,” I said again.

“Be very still,” she commanded.

I felt the metal tip against my throat, which was still sore from finger pressure. Four quick needle stabs burst through my skin, and then it was over. I cautiously reached to feel the needles protruding from my neck, but there was nothing there. Apparently, this kind of acupuncture only pierces with the needle, but doesn’t implant it.

Next, she started applying tiny needle pads to my ears. These are like miniscule Band-Aids, with a needle protruding from the center. The pain was minimal, and after a few minutes my ears were covered in the little things.

She looked at me straight on and grabbed an ear in each hand. Then she squeezed so hard that I felt the pain in the back of my neck.

“Hurt?” she asked, smiling.

“Yes!”

She seemed pleased. Perhaps this is the Korean version of a knee reflex test.

She brought the needle-torpedo to my left ear and punctured the top. Then she fled from the room and returned with a paper towel. “Bleeding,” she said.

She did the same to the right ear, but this time she looked concerned. “Dark blood.” Her face dropped, and she gazed at my ear as if seeing a bad omen. “Daaark blood.”

I nodded solemnly to show her I appreciated the gravity of the situation.

She replaced her tools in the tray and grabbed my left hand. She singled out my index finger and stared intently at it. After several beats, she met my eyes and said, “Intestine, not very good.” This she said with a motherly, scolding tone. I almost wanted to apologize. But then she looked at my pinky and smiled. “Kidney good.”

“How can you tell?” I asked.

“Finger shape… color…” Trying to reassure me about the intestines, she said, “Many Korean, their intestine very bad. Yours, a little bad.”

“Oh good,” I said.

“Feel better?” she asked.

“Yes,” I lied. "I feel good."

Why Flannery?

Describing herself to a friend while struggling with the disease that eventually took her life, Flannery O'Connor writes, "I am practically bald-headed on top and have a watermelon face... I stay strictly out of the sun and strictly do not take any exercise. No great hardship." Unhappiness with her physical appearance, coupled with a natural camera shyness, led her to submit a painted self-portrait to her publishers for the dust jacket of an upcoming novel. You can imagine her publisher's shock at receiving the above portrait, which she painted with a palette knife because she felt disinclined to wash brushes.

Her publisher refused to use the portrait and soon sent a photographer to her farm in Georgia. After the photo shoot, Flannery writes, "I had to go have my picture taken for the purposes of Harcourt, Brace. They were all bad. The one I sent looked as if I had just bitten my grandmother and that this was one of my few pleasures, but all the rest were worse."

Which is how we get gems like this:

This is how I usually imagine her. There's something guarded in her posture. Her eyes are aggressive in the manner of an animal aware of being observed. In many photos she is smiling, but even in her smile, one notes a barely restrained mischief, coupled with an intensity of perception. It's this perceptive quality that marks both her personality and her work. Never leaving their perch, her eyes reach farther than her arms, grip harder than her fingers.

At this point, you're thinking, Wow, this guy is really into Flannery O'Connor!

Congratulations. You caught me red-handed.

When I reach that point in a friendship where I feel safe enough to confess that I am infatuated with a dead Catholic writer of Southern Gothic literature whose house was guarded by an army of peacocks, I always receive the same response: "Oh my God! Me too!"

But just in case I someday meet someone who doesn't share my obsession, this blog entry is an attempt to shed light on the question, why Flannery?

It wasn't immediate. When I first read her work, I was equal parts impressed and confounded. Mystery and Manners enlightened and fortified, but Wise Blood completely mystified me, so much so that I never finished it. I started reading her short stories. A traveling Bible salesman steals a girl's prosthetic leg. A boy drowns himself in an attempted baptism. Each story, I would turn to the last page and have no idea what I had just read.*

My admiration didn't truly solidify into something more until I began reading her letters. You see, I'm not as much enamored with her work, as with Flannery herself.

Condensing her mission statement into one sentence, Flannery writes, "You have to make your vision apparent by shock--to the hard of hearing you shout, and for the blind you draw large and startling figures."

This has become a sort of creed for me. Increasingly I am certain that, for those who desire such an aim, to live righteously requires an act of violence.

Flannery O'Connor lived by this violence. She lacked that useful camouflage, by which most of us distort ourselves to fit in more easily with those around us. Whether by choice or some kind of innate deficiency, Flannery lacked this adaptation mechanism. She was undiluted.

Fellow Southerners were scandalized by her writing. When she published Wise Blood, people hid copies in their closets, embarrassed to own such scandalous material. One cousin even sent her a note with just one sentence: "I do not like your book."

And yet, she was not revered by the writing world either. Initial reviews were scathing. Even the positive ones could be condescending. "If this is really the unaided work of a young lady," one author wrote, "it is a remarkable product." To which Flannery's mother irately responded, "Does he suppose you're not a lady?"

The key facets of Flannery's identity were rejected by those to whom she was most dedicated. To fellow Catholics, she was offensively profane. To fellow writers, she was offensively Catholic.

But really, she was just Flannery. Obstinately so.

Every age makes its own war against the godly. One generation will attack them for being too merciful, while the next attacks them for being too harsh. One age condemns Jesus for calling Himself God, while the next despises Him for calling Himself a man. Decades pass, while humanity proves that saying of GK Chesterton, when he writes that "there are many, many angles at which one can fall, but only one angle at which one can stand straight."

In response to a humanity that is always changing, most of us choose one of two options. One: we submit, mimicking the specific limp of our age until it becomes our own. Or two: we revolt, falling left when those around us fall right, painting ourselves black to combat an aggressive white.

One submits, the other revolts, but neither stands fast.

Spiritual violence is to laugh in grave situations, to be kind when kindness is out of season, to stand in silence when accused, to cast out demons in an age of materialism, to defend beauty against brutal efficiencies, to pray small prayers in secret while big men make shows of doing good, to marry for life, to make peace, to value others before yourself... to write very, very long sentences.

I aspire to be like Flannery, to live as a "startling figure" for the blind.

I know that she wasn't perfect, and I readily admit that the Flannery in my head is a mere caricature of the historical figure. Ms. O'Connor is merely one bold soul among a host of men and women who in every age have taken hold of a kingdom by violence.

I have many answers to the question, "Why Flannery?" But on this day in particular, July 24th, I must admit that my admiration for Flannery largely stems from her strong resemblance to another bold soul. In all of her coy humor, her bravery in the face of fearful circumstance, her keen sight, and her goodness, I know that one chief reason I love Flannery is because she reminds me of my mom.

Happy Birthday, Mom. I love you!





*If you are interested in checking out the literature of Flannery O'Connor, I recommend you start with "Revelation" or "Parker's Back," which are two of my favorite stories, both of which can be found in the collection, Everything that Rises Must Converge. If you are a writer, I also recommend a collection of her essays and speeches on the craft, entitled, Mystery and Manners. Either way, let me know what you think. I'd love to discuss!

Too Soon?

A few life rules: Don't read See Spot Run to a child whose dog has just died. Don't sing Whitney Houston's "I Will Always Love You" to a friend whose girlfriend just broke up with him. Don't watch Nacho Libre with a family who has recently been terrorized by a luchador.

And don't write a funny blog piece about wildfires in Colorado Springs.

One year ago, on June 26th, I started working on a blog about the wildfire which was then sweeping through the region. Few homes had yet been affected, and the entry is light-hearted and comical. A few hours later, the entry became unpublishable, as the fire destroyed over 300 homes. What had been amusing was now devastating, and the last thing a fire victim wants is a blogger making light of a heavy situation.

But a few weeks ago, I thought to myself, "Maybe enough time has passed, and I can pull that blog out of the archives as an anniversary piece."

Enter: Black Forest Wildfire. The night it began, I tried driving to a friend's house to help her evacuate, but was met by policemen guarding her neighborhood. Seeing the way blocked, I parked a half mile away and sprinted through backcountry to get to her house, barely able to breathe through all the smoke and my crippling lack of fitness.

In between loads to the car, I watched the fire grow in the distance and said, "I don't think this one will be as bad as last year's."

But my friend's cousin knew the truth. A tattooed sage, he gazed into the distance and exclaimed, "F-, this sh- is about to f-ing explode!"

The sage was right. The most devastating fire in Colorado History, the fire burned down 500 homes in my city. The most trivial result being, my light-hearted blog was once again unpublishable.

But you know what? Screw it. I'm posting it anyway.

Enjoy!

Fire! Brimstone!

The house smells of smoke (and has for days), and I can hear planes overhead, rushing to dump water on the Waldo Canyon Fire, which just two miles away has “literally erupted,” according to news reporters. I literally have not heard so many uses of “literally” or “erupted” in my life.

It started on Saturday. I was swimming at a lake in Boulder and relaxing on the beach (non-Coloradoans should probably imagine a pond with a sandbox, but to us it’s a beach). When I returned to my phone, I had twelve missed calls and a voicemail from my brother. Panting as if he’s sprinting mere feet ahead of the fire, he yells: “Josh Skaggs, ANSWER YOUR PHONE! FIRE. BRIMSTONE. We’re evacuating. We’ve tried to call you a million times. Answer your phone. Bye.”

I called him back, and he relayed the news that a fire was burning near our house, and our neighborhood was under “suggested evacuation.”

I took off my floaties and changed out of my Speedo. Time to go home.

On the two-hour drive home, watching plumes of smoke smother the skies and wondering what to pack once we reached my house, John Mark, Kandilyn, and I began to discuss related matters—namely, the apocalypse. Right now, smoke towered above one mountain, but what would it be like when the very sun was blotted out of the sky? And what would we grab from our houses? Water, food… what else? Paper towels? An iPod?

John Mark, who had already considered this question, was fully prepared with a list of packing items for when the last days began. I mentally scolded myself as he reminded me of such items as knives, a fire-starter kit, a tarp. He concluded by sharing his plan to break into the local library and take its books on surviving in Colorado.

This is why John Mark and I are friends: when the end times hit, and everyone’s busting up grocery stores and Best Buy, he’s going to loot the library.

Shortly after I arrived home, my grandparents pulled up in front of my house with a trailer hitched to their SUV. I didn’t know whether to roll my eyes or start hyperventilating. I was upstairs, and I heard the front door open and then Grandma’s voice shakily calling: “Is there anyone in this house? Is anyone HERE?”

I came down and helped them go through the house, instructing them only to pack the most necessary items. During the next hour, Grandma continually consulted me about such items as “these towels” and “a pile of old shoes in Victor’s room,” to which I repeated, “Only what can’t be replaced.”

Anna, my seven-year-old sister, could barely restrain her excitement at the adventure of fleeing the house. As we scoured our home for anything important, she directed us to what she considered to be valuable, at one point handing me a quarter and two pennies and soberly telling me, “We should probably take this.”

...And that's it. I never finished this blog entry, because that afternoon a fire came roaring down the mountain, and cops were suddenly patrolling my street, ordering everyone to evacuate. It was two days before I heard news that my home was safe. I let go a sigh of relief, one which was shortened by the news of a friend whose entire neighborhood had burned, just one mile away.

This year, just as I am settling into my normal state of complacency, good ol' Colorado reminds me that life can change in an instant, that even with all our technologies and the buffers we think keep us safe, we are at the Lord's mercy. How much time will pass before I forget again?

Escaping those Devilish Swedes!

Everyone receives some strange emails from time to time. I don't know if this is unique to me, considering my former role as an Intercessory Missionary, but I tend to get several emails from people around the world asking for prayer. Here's one I received today, perhaps the funniest to date.  Apparently, this man wants me to pray for him to find Christian community (specifically a wife), while escaping the woes of "evil" Sweden.

An appeal for practical Christian help: Christian unmarried man innocently excommunicated from church in Sweden, ousted from Swedish society, and currently without humane future in Sweden, because of Sweden’s heartless pastors and heretic priests, and due to Sweden’s aggressively anti-Christian culture.

Will you please help? Will you please pray - that a human on earth will want to help as a Christian?

As a Christian, I need church fellowship. As a human, I need a humane environment. And as a single man longing for Christian marriage, I need opportunity for communication with other Christians. Sweden currently obstructs all three basic needs. It is essentially impossible for me as a Christian single man to marry a Christian woman in Sweden, because: 1) I am excommunicated from church without a provided reason, 2) no pastor in Sweden wants to welcome me and assist, 3) there are few Christians in Sweden (~5%), 4) most Swedish-nurtured and Swedish-cultured Christian women are feminists (relatively radical), and 5) in most international comparisons Swedish people might best be described as social imbeciles.

I have been active on Christian singles websites since around 1995, and periodically I have dedicated 40 hours per week as a full-time occupation attempting to connect with Christians on such singles sites. Many “Christian” singles websites have banned me. One of the largest international Christian singles sites banned me. The main British Christian singles website banned me. I would be surprised if anyone has more exposure to Christian singles websites as a user than I.

As harsh and church-incorrect as it will sound, yet from my extensive experience from online Christian singles connective websites, I need to be fully honest and conclude that, in essence, most Christian ladies on internet singles sites are there because of at least one of these two reasons: 1) bodily disadvantage in competing for men’s natural interest, 2) shy/introverted personalities or other personal problems. The grave overrepresentation of introverted/problematic/disadvantaged/unappealing women on the “Christian” singles websites is a logical reason of preferring to encounter more “normal” Christians face-to-face within a healthy church setting rather than online.

My unresolved agony as an innocently excommunicated Christian seeking a Christian church and marital relationship continues; day by day and year after year. Inhumane and evil Sweden, resembling Satan himself, steals, kills and destroys (John 10:10) – and offers no liveable future.

Unlike the devilish Swedish church people, will you as a non-Swede please take action as a real Christian should?

I also encourage your intercessory prayers for God to transform the hearts and minds of pastors and priests in Sweden so that their Swedishness will be transformed to Christlikeness.

Hitler, Toilets Again, and Every Home for Christ

So Hitler was this bad dude with a neutered mustache who only liked people who looked like Matt Damon. He didn’t like Jews or gays or people who watch Dancing with the Stars. He wanted everyone to be like him (which is strange, because Hitler didn’t particularly look like Matt Damon).

If you were Hitler’s pal, he might pull a gun on you for suggesting a viewing of your favorite foreign film (not really a fan of Life is Beautiful, apparently). You should avoid bringing your crippled aunt over for dinner. Or your black friend. Also, you might want to avoid mentioning the Bonhoeffer biography you’ve been enjoying.

And though you’ll be sorely tempted, avoid calling him a “Negative Nancy” or “Debbie Downer.” Hitler hates being compared to anyone named Nancy—and Debbies are worse.

It’s going to feel like you’re walking on eggshells around him. But that’s the price you’ll have to pay to be his friend. Hitler’s found out the kind of person he likes best, and he can’t stand it if even one person doesn’t conform. His friends are yes men. His co-workers are as uniform as the uniform they wear. Anyone wanting to get close to Hitler has to play by his rules. He’s a very strict bouncer, letting few into his disco of trust.

The thing about Hitler is, he only feels safe when everyone looks, acts, and thinks like him.

Am I about to compare myself to Hitler?

Yes.

Is that comparison a bit of an exaggeration?

I sure hope so.

Do I sometimes overuse the question/answer format in my blogs?

Absolutely!

But back to the point: Hitler typifies our human impulse toward sameness. In his case, this was a brutal ethnocentricity that resulted in millions of deaths.

It’s unfortunate to have to admit, however, that I exhibit this same tendency, albeit in small, less lethal ways. (And I’m not alone in this. Why else would so many people find mates who look eerily like themselves? And why, according to many psychologists, are we comforted when a person mimics our facial expressions and tone in conversation?)

Let’s admit it: we feel safe around people who have a lot in common with Numero Uno.

I thought I had a handle on this though. Having grown up with a Peruvian, a Filipino, and a Ukrainian (is this the opening of a lame joke?), I like to consider myself foreign-friendly. It is true that I tend to be fairly welcoming toward people whom others might consider foreign or strange.

Which might explain why this desire for sameness hasn’t primarily emerged in my work with the Choe’s, who differ from me in more ways than I can count. I expect the Choe’s to be different, so it’s easy for me to remain open-minded and gracious. I began our relationship with a healthy inquisitiveness which has grown into joy, and I now find myself at home with these people who use strange toilets.

Surprisingly, the biggest opportunities for tension have occurred at my full-time job, where I work with white, Protestant Americans—like me.

That “like me” is very important. How often I’ve expected these people to be my people, people among whom I can find a home. Sadly, this expectation has often led me to offense, bewilderment, and unnecessary difficulty.

If my time working with Koreans has often seemed a baffling experience, this new role at Every Home for Christ has been more so. Both cultures are foreign to me, but the foreign nature of EHC was largely unanticipated. I was caught off guard, and I found myself populated with unforeseen Hitler characteristics. (Perhaps this would be a good time to drop the Hitler metaphor, lest my co-workers become anxious.)

When I accepted a full-time position with the ministry, I thought I was setting out on a journey with like-minded people, all of them ablaze with the same vision that so excited me. (All those who have worked for a ministry for any length of time now roll their eyes and say, “Rookie.”)

What I found instead was an assortment of strange individuals, most of them head-scratchingly different from myself. In the midst of these foreigners, I must ward off anxiety, a foe that looms larger at EHC than at the Choe’s. For some reason, although I’m an alien at the Choe’s house, I rarely feel alienated. I try not to commit any blunders, but even when I do, I am not crippled with insecurity. I cannot say the same at Every Home for Christ, where I can easily fall prey to insecurity if I don’t keep a close watch on myself.

A smile I offer while passing in the hall is not returned. Conversations I launch with the hopes of generous head nods are greeted instead with confused stares—or worse, a zombie-like lack of lucidity.

One of my co-workers greets me at my cubicle with a friendly, “What’s up?”

“Nothing much,” I say.

His smile wanes. “Well that’s not good! You should be busy working hard.”

I nod awkwardly, unsure of a response. “…What’s up with you?”

I can’t seem to find my way in this culture! These people were supposed to be like me, but they’re not. The disappointment is familiar. I’ve experienced the same with good friends. There’s a stage in which it seems we have everything in common, but over time I start to recognize glaring differences, and I think, Maybe they’re not like me after all.

I feel betrayed. I feel like people are failing me. But the truth is, I set them up for failure when I imposed my unrealistic expectations.

Among strangers, foreigners—Koreans—I make no such claim. Every interaction is a game show—“What’s behind curtain number one?” Furthermore, my role in this community is clear. I’m the white guy whose fingers cramp when holding chopsticks. My differences are substantial, and because of that, I am able to find my role with relative ease: I’m the American tutor.

At EHC, I expect to find “my people,” which is why it’s so jarring when I find that here too I must find my own way.

The difficult truth is that each person is an entire universe of unforeseen possibilities. I must avoid the temptation to lash out against others' differences (pride), as well as the temptation to isolate myself behind thick walls (fear). At every juncture, I can choose to welcome the people in my life like that mysterious bidet, finding myself unexpectedly cleansed in the process.

When I look to each interaction with a spirit of inquisitiveness and intrigue, I let go of hurt and offense. Through this disposition, I’ve found an exciting new world at the Choe’s. But this new world is equally available at EHC.

At the Choe’s, Daniel may stop a story mid-sentence if Bella enters the room. At EHC, a front desk conversation may similarly stop if a third party approaches.

At the Choe's, heated arguments in Korean grind to a halt the moment I ask for translation, and the only thing I know for sure (I think?) is that the disagreement had to do with card tricks. At EHC, dealings may just as well be in Korean, for all the insight I’ve attained.

The withering looks I receive at the Choe’s for committing an unknown faux pas may be turned to me at EHC for saying the name Barack Obama.

Whether I like it or not, Every Home for Christ is run on a series of unspoken guidelines and intricate, unwritten systems that I am only beginning to comprehend. I can ask for translation, but most understanding will come only with passing time.

If I’m to make a home among my community, I must allow my co-workers and friends the individuality they deserve. Historically, rulers have committed awful crimes whenever expectations of “sameness” become too high an ideal. Although my sphere of influence is small, I commit a comparable injustice whenever I expect those around me to conform to my molds.

We are all marooned in our own bodies and thoughts, aliens to one another. The only way we can get along is by acknowledging the vast spaces between us, finding our place as aliens among aliens, sojourners among sojourners.

Oddly, it becomes easier to find my role when I admit that I am different. In a clique, every difference is a threat to acceptance. No such threat exists where differences are honored and cherished.

At the Choe’s, I catch little glimpses into the lives of this ragtag group of Koreans: Prisca quietly dreams of becoming a worship leader. Josh feigns illness when he and Elisha can’t resolve an argument. Bella prides herself on coming from Gangnam, of the famed “Gangnam” style.

At EHC, a co-worker boasts about Rascal and Cutie, and when I ask who Rascal and Cutie are, she points to two beagles embossed on the shoulders of her jacket. I tell another co-worker that I’m having a bad day, and she gives me a ten minute pep talk, along with a book on how to overcome grief.

Let me close with a quote from My Big Fat Greek Wedding. Toula’s father, Gus, is making a wedding speech. He compares his family’s last name, which translates to “orange,” to the groom’s family name, which translates to “apple.” Gus ties it all together by saying, his wisdom accentuated by his accent, “We all different, but in the end, we all fruit.”

Which is cute and funny and makes us all feel good. Because it’s true. We are all fruit. In spite of our differences, which can never be measured, our shared humanity is as familiar as the sun and moon. We want so badly to be known, but not figured out; understood, but not solved. We want to be ourselves—with each other.

New Culture, Clean Bum

At the Choe’s house (click here if unfamiliar with the Choe’s), there is a bathroom with a strange toilet in it. The toilet has an arm with about a dozen buttons, some with a symbol (a butt with water spraying it, for example), others with a word (“massage” and “dryer” are two options).

If you’re familiar with a bidet—pronounced “bid-A”—you know what I’m describing. Bidets are common in parts of Asia and Europe. They’re like normal toilets, only more high falutin. These toilets do all the dirty work for you, making toilet paper superfluous. They shoot a refreshing stream of water to clean your nether regions.

I had heard rumors of such a thing, but had never had the chance to use one myself. So when I saw that the Choe’s owned a bidet, I knew I had to take this opportunity.

Even so, months passed before I worked up the courage to try it.

My fears were legion: Where is the water coming from? Is it recycling the same water I just used for my business? What if the water pressure is too much? Or too cold? Or unbearably hot? What if it makes a loud noise, and all the Korean students turn and give “Mr. Josh” a knowing look when he leaves the bathroom?

Finally, I overcame my fears and made the decision. It was D-Day.

All through tutoring, I could feel my nerves winding tighter and tighter. I worked through math problems with Bella, but in my mind all I saw was THE BIDET. I was planning to excuse myself and go to the bathroom before dinner, but chickened out at the last minute. I sat down at the dinner table, almost too nervous to eat. Luckily, my lack of dexterity with chopsticks meant each bite was tiny and easy to digest.

Dinner ended, and it was time for me to leave.

Now or never.

I walked into the bathroom, shut the door, and attended to my fecal function. (Sometimes, euphemisms make things worse, not better. Sorry, ladies.)

Finished, I studied the panel beside me and ASSayed which BUTTon to push. (See what I did there? I’m so clever with LANGuage.)

I decided to go with the straightforward choice of the butt emblem with water spraying it. My finger hovered.

My biggest fear was that the spray would somehow gush out of control. I lacked an instruction manual, which is fine for common household items like blenders or toasters, but terrifying when your bum is involved. My bum was involved! I could imagine the spray launching forth like a fire hydrant, ejecting me from my position on the porcelain, soaking me head to toe. I imagined myself exiting the bathroom, dripping toilet water onto the hardwood floor, Korean eyes cinching shut with disgust and laughter.

I lowered my finger, pressed the button.

…Nothing happened.

I pressed it again. Nothing. I pressed a different button. Still nothing. All that anxiety and it doesn’t even work! I thought.

I drove home. Before visiting the Choe’s, I had texted John Mark, “I’m going to use the bidet today.” (Yup, that’s my life.) Now, I sent a new text, embarrassed and defeated: “It didn’t work.”

In the wake of such failure, his reply was maddeningly practical: “Did you wipe?”

Of course I wiped! It’s not like, “Oh no! The bidet didn’t work! If only—OH GOD IF ONLY—there were some other option I could use!”

Later, we discussed possible reasons why the bidet had malfunctioned, and he suggested that it wasn’t plugged in. Which seems absurd, but turned out to be true.

A few weeks later (I had drained my courage tank on the first go, and had to refuel) I tried again. This time, I made sure it was plugged in before ascending the throne.

When I was finished with my you-know-what (Is the vagueness really necessary at this point? I pooped, okay?), I was ready. I pushed the button. A stream of water immediately rinsed my hind quarters like a… river flowing through an... upside down canyon…? (Metaphors are hard, yo!)

It was not scary. Neither was it the pinnacle of European comforts. It was actually… remarkably unremarkable.

After fifteen seconds of washing, I thought, Surely I must be clean by now. After thirty seconds, I thought, Seriously, who has time for this? After a minute: Am I stuck here forever?

Finally, I noticed the red STOP button, the most noticeable button on the whole panel. I pressed it and, with a single wipe to dry myself, I was done.

I had conquered the bidet.

(Come back soon for the epic conclusion: “Hitler, and Toilets Again”)

Becoming Korean

Every Tuesday and Thursday, I tidy my cubicle, draw the blinds, shut down my computer, and drive ten minutes up the road to a large, cozy house, where I am suddenly transformed by untucking my shirt, tossing my shoes on a pile outside the front door, and stepping into a house that smells of fish and a spice I can't quite name.

I am now Mr. Josh. I eat seaweed, applaud card tricks, fumble chopsticks. I give guidance, sip soup, and, most of all, I pretend I’m Korean for an evening.

In September, I got a job as a part-time tutor for nine Korean students living together with a host family, the Choe’s. Along with my friend John Mark, I go twice a week to help these students with their homework. Most days I am only with them for two hours at a time, but in November I had the opportunity to join them for a Thanksgiving retreat. It looked a little bit like this:

When I come to the hot tub, Kevin, an 11-year-old boy who is small and sprightly like a Korean Peter Pan, greets me: “Mr. Josh! Take off your shirt!”

I look at him quizzically but oblige. Then we round a corner, and I discover that all those in the hot tub are wearing shirts, some long-sleeved. Kevin smiles at me mischievously, and we dip into the bubbling water. (Later, Kevin, inspired by my precedent, sneaks around the corner to take off his shirt—but then he tucks the bottom into his trunks and drapes the sleeves over his shoulders so his front is still covered.)

After an hour-long game of Signs that shrivels my skin and saps my energy, I’m ready to leave the hot tub. But one of the girls suggests we play another game, and I decide to stay, since this may be my one opportunity to join Korean teenagers for a hot tub game of Truth or Dare.

It doesn’t take long to discover that they haven’t quite mastered the basics of Truth or Dare. When one of the girls starts the game off with “Truth,” she is asked the strange and slightly off-putting, “Is it true that you woke up without any pants on one time?” The girl gives a puzzled “no,” and we move on to such questions as “Have you ever skipped a day brushing your teeth?” and “Does your room smell really, really bad?”

The dares are more traditional. By the end of the night, I’ve pirouetted and twirled my way around the hot tub in a 30-second dance and one of the girls has pressed her face to John Mark’s wrinkled and sweltering foot.

When the game becomes too truth-heavy, with no one brave enough to request another dare, we retire to our rooms for the night. John Mark and I have been paired with the two youngest boys, Kevin and Daniel. They are equal in age, but while Kevin is outgoing and has a voice reminiscent of a Disney mouse, Daniel is heftier and speaks with a throaty warble. (At his sixth grade choir concert, you can easily discern his voice: he’s the only bass.)

Daniel loves playing cards. Whenever I sit down at my tutoring desk, he sidles silently to my side and whispers, “Pick… a card.” Sometimes the trick is impressive, but more often than not he botches it or, more strangely, walks away without warning.

That night, we play Blackjack. John Mark and I aren’t familiar with all the rules, so we are forced to rely on the instructions of 11-year-olds. Somehow, Kevin keeps winning. He’ll collect eight cards or so, pick three that he likes, and then discard the rest. When I ask why he discarded the other five cards, he answers simply, “They don’t count.”

Never play Blackjack with a Korean.

Before bed, I hand out Aquafinas and tell the boys they have to down their whole bottle before going to bed. They ask why, and although we’re only worried about dehydration, John Mark sarcastically answers, “We want to make sure you pee the bed tonight.”

They look at us with shocked expressions, and he quickly reassures, “Just kidding.”

But then I add, “Mr. John Mark is going to pee the bed though.”

“Really?” Kevin says earnestly.

“No, I’m just teasing you,” I say. I try one more time, “But I will if John Mark does.”

They gasp a third time, a sarcasm strike-out. Maybe it’s the cultural barrier, or maybe it’s the hierarchical gap—I am ever and always “Mr. Josh”—but sarcasm has yet to connect.

Despite the comedic disconnect, my time with these Korean students has been filled with laughter. After I’d worked with the Choe family for two months, Daniel asked me, “Mr. Josh, are you special forces?”

I stifled a laugh and shook my head no.

“Army?”

“No,” I said. “I’m not in the military.” Suddenly, it made sense why on so many occasions he’d greeted me with a salute. A typical American, I’d just assumed it was a Korean thing.

“Not any military?” Daniel asked, squinting up at me with a sad, betrayed expression.

“Nope,” I said. “Sorry.”

In my time with the Choe’s, my civilian status isn’t the only way I’ve come short. I have been called “geeky.” Worse, in an inadvertent insult, Kevin one day exclaimed, “Mr. Josh! You are growing a beard!” (I had had one since I started tutoring.)

That observation was the only comment about my appearance, a fact that wouldn’t have bothered me if John Mark hadn’t marveled at how many times the students commented on his good looks.

Last month, Pastor Moses, the leader of this group of students, made up for this lack by announcing three times how privileged he was to have such “Handsome, godly, handsome, servant-hearted, handsome men of God helping with the program.”

I don’t know who bribed him to say this, but I can only say a sincere, “Thank you.”


(Check back Sunday for a follow-up post: "New Culture, Clean Bum")