Author: Gary Brumbelow

What Do You Say to a Weeping Stranger?

In September 2000 Valerie and I, with a friend, June, flew to Seoul, South Korea, the first leg of a trip to Siberia.  We spent the night on the campus of the Yoido Full Gospel Church, at 700,000 the largest church in the world. It was Saturday evening and a loud, all-night prayer meeting was going on in the sanctuary next door to the dorm. We slept, but not much. And watched a Nebraska University football game live!

Worshippers entering Yoido Full Gospel Church

After the early service Sunday morning, a hospitable young man from the church showed us around the city for a couple of hours before we took a taxi back to the airport to go on to Khabarovsk, Russia.

When we arrived at the terminal and got out at the curb we saw something curious. A young woman, surrounded by luggage and holding her baby, stood on the sidewalk, quietly weeping as crowds of travelers hurried by. No one seemed to notice her. But we were drawn to her.

“Are you okay?” June asked. And she told us her story, speaking in English with a Russian accent.

She and her husband, their twelve-year-old daughter and baby had flown all night from Moscow to Seoul. The family was moving to Korea where he had a job waiting. They had arrived at the other terminal, visible some distance away. They collected their luggage and went to the taxi stand to come to this terminal to catch their domestic flight.

Their troubles began at the taxi stand. A single car could not accommodate them and their luggage. So her husband put her and the baby and half the luggage in a taxi and said, “I’ll be right behind you in the next taxi.”

Alone and afraid

She and her baby and luggage had been set out here where we had found her. But her husband and daughter had never arrived. At this point, she had waited ninety minutes, and had no idea what had happened to her family. She had no identification, no money, knew no one, spoke no Korean. She was utterly helpless, lost and alone, a fitting picture of the apostle Paul’s description of the Ephesians, “separated from Christ, alienated from the commonwealth of Israel and strangers to the covenants of promise, having no hope and without God in the world,” (Eph 2:12 ESV).

What do you do when confronted with such a scenario? We were also strangers, didn’t speak the language, not sure how we could help. In fact I was dubious: was this some kind of scam? But there were three of us, and we were determined to do what we could, one step at a time.

Inside the terminal I asked if they could page the other building. “No.” We would need to go there.

Valerie and June agreed to stay with the baggage and be on the lookout for anyone who appeared like he was looking for someone. I went back in and begged a piece of paper, a marker and some tape. The woman wrote her name on the paper and we taped it to the handlebars of the stroller.

The woman carried her baby and we got on the shuttle. The ride took a few minutes and we got off at the original terminal and looked around. The buildings were not huge; in a few minutes we had determined he was not there.

Help wanted

I asked the young woman at the information desk to page him.

“No. We only page for citizens or lost children.”

“But this family is separated, can’t you help us?” She called for authorization but hung up and said “No, I’m sorry.”

The police station was at this terminal. We approached their office, but the language barrier prevented any real communication. Same result at the taxi stand. Everyone was courteous, even sympathetic, but nobody could help. And I was out of ideas. This poor woman was beginning to cry again. She had taken some courage from our offer to help. For a few minutes, her hopes had lifted. But now she was sinking into fear again. I saw this and tried to encourage her.

“I am praying.” I wasn’t sure what that would mean to her. “God will help us.” I tried to sound convincing, and in the meantime, I was having a separate conversation with God. This would be a good time, Lord. Any moment now would be a real good time to make something happen.

When I lose something, say a tool, I look where I last used it. Failing that, I go back to the prior place I had it. If I don’t find it, I go back to the first place. Limited imagination? Maybe, but I didn’t know what else to do. I also didn’t know that God was already answering my prayers.

“Let’s go back. Maybe he has come now.” Of course that made no sense; he had not come for ninety minutes, why would ten more make any difference? But all this time, at every step, God was at work. His invisible hand was guiding us.

Sudden turn to joy

We got back on the shuttle. I sat behind her, looking out the window at nothing and praying. God, please help us. Look with favor on this desperate family.

That’s when everything took an abrupt turn. Almost too fast to process.

The shuttle was in the right lane. And now the left lane was dividing from ours at an island, commercial traffic to the right, private vehicles to the left. But we weren’t back at the terminal yet. Slowly I realized this was a third terminal, between the other two but hidden from both. The significance of that was not immediately obvious. But in a moment, it washed over both of us with perfect clarity and sudden joy. Because at the very tip of that island, right where the lanes parted, a man was standing, scanning all the traffic very intensely. She gasped, and I knew we had our man.

He saw her, and darted through traffic to be there when our shuttle stopped at the curb. She fell into his arms and time stood still. In a few seconds their world was turned right-side up again.

Later, thinking about that moment, I thought, What if I had tried to cheer her? “Well, at least it’s a beautiful day” or “Your baby is really cute?” No words would have lifted her burden in the slightest. The fear and despair were too profound. But now, nothing I might have said would have disturbed her in the least: her joy was that deep.

I watched this happy reunion. After a moment, she stunned me by stepping up and hugging my neck with fierce intensity.

So close, so far away

Now we knew what had happened. From Terminal Three the first taxi took her to Terminal One and the second taxi took him to Terminal Two. For ninety minutes they had not been far apart, and yet their separation was complete and profound because of what they didn’t know.

We decided she would stay with the children (their twelve-year-old daughter stood nearby) while he went with me to get the luggage. The shuttle took us back where all this started. Valerie and June were overjoyed to hear the story. We loaded her luggage and I went with him one more time to help.

Back at the “mystery” terminal I helped him set out the bags and stepped back on the bus. The doors closed, we pulled away, and I watched this little family as long as I could. My heart was bursting with joy at the privilege to have helped them from their predicament. And I learned something about God that I had never before understood.

But that’s for another post.

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Tree and Leaf: What I Learned from J.R.R. Tolkien

This post is to introduce my readers to a little-known, powerful resource for anyone interested in writing. Or reading.

In March my wife and I were in Panama and I had occasion to recommend this little book to someone who identified herself as a reader of Tolkien. And I realized I should blog about it.

My friend and colleague Darrow Miller put me on to this volume that contains three lesser known works by J.R.R. Tolkien. I’m writing here about the opening essay, “Tree and Leaf.” I thought I knew Tolkien until I read this astonishing composition. Reminds me of the first time I saw Crater Lake in southern Oregon and realized I had never seen the color blue until that moment. If you retain a sense of wonder and appreciate the careful use of language you need to read “Tree and Leaf.”

Tolkien begins very humbly. His first paragraph disarms the reader who, drawn into the charm of his prose, wanders into the essay heedless of the master’s spell. Too late, you realize you have been seized and carried off by beauty.

I propose to speak about fairy-stories, though I am aware that this is a rash adventure. Faërie is a perilous land, and in it are pitfalls for the unwary and dungeons for the overbold. And overbold I may be accounted, for though I have been a lover of fairy-stories since I learned to read, and have at times thought about them, I have not studied them professionally. I have been hardly more than a wandering explorer (or trespasser) in the land, full of wonder but not of information.

Don’t let the term “fairy story” throw you. Think Lord of the Rings. He shows the natural connection between religion and mythology, between myth and history (“they are both ultimately of the same stuff”).

“Tree and Leaf” is to be read and re-read. It parts the curtain to peer into Tolkien’s imagination, his creation of Middle Earth. In fact, he notes in the introduction that this essay was written “in the same period (1938-9), when The Lord of the Rings was beginning to unroll itself and to unfold prospects of labour and exploration in yet unknown country as daunting to me as to the hobbits. At about that time we had reached Bree, and I had then no more notion than they had of what had become of Gandalf or who Strider was; and I had begun to despair of surviving to find out.”

I’m saving for other posts at least two themes from this essay: the work of the artist as sub-creator and the unlikely power of the adjective. I’ll end this post with just one more ravishing paragraph.

The analytic study of fairy stories is as bad a preparation for the enjoying or the writing of them as would be the historical study of the drama of all lands and times for the enjoyment or writing of stage plays. The study may indeed become depressing. It is easy for the student to feel that with all his labor he is collecting only a few leaves, many of them now torn or decayed, from the countless foliage of the Tree of Tales, with which the Forest of Days is carpeted. It seems vain to add to the litter. Who can design a new leaf? The patterns from bud to unfolding, and the colors from spring to autumn were all discovered by men long ago. But that is not true. The seed of the tree can be replanted in almost any soil, even in one so smoke written (as Lang said) as that of England. Spring is of course, not really less beautiful because we have seen or heard of other like events: like events, never from world’s beginning to world’s end the same event. Each leaf, of oak and ash and thorn, is a unique embodiment of the pattern, and for some this very year maybe the embodiment, the first ever seen and recognized, though oaks have put forth leaves for countless generations of men.

 

 

 

 

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