No News is Good News

     Approaching each and every doorstep with a dark tan messenger bag at the shoulder, the arm extended and the hand rose up, clenching a fist, lightly rapping the door.  With each raise, the hand had become heavier and heavier.  It was quivering toward the end of each day, wondering if it would want to be raised again.  The words of many behind each door had penetrated the center of where that hand come from-- the acerbity of each voice-- Spanish, Vietnamese, Korean, Chinese-- had wounded the soul inasmuch so that it was harder and harder for the hand to do what it did.  The time had gone by, but the wounds of the words still remained.  Many more piercing prose, ripping open each and every sutured scar.

     The mundaneness of knocking door after door can test the resolve of any missionary resorted to such a task, but I honestly see it as a fun way to find people to teach.  Rejection comes at every corner, but that can easily be brushed off.  Many times, the people may not be Korean or may not even be at home.  As stressful as it is, I still enjoyed knocking-- you meet a ton of interesting people and perhaps you can even teach a couple of things about your church to them!

안녕하세요!

     Lately, though, I've been very weary of knocking doors.  It isn't because of the rejection and it isn't about the lack of Korean people.  Rather, it was the people who listened to us-- the people who were willing to care for what we had to say.  Precisely these people have made me not want to knock on doors.  The people who were willing to hear us out-- the majority of them had disclosed to us that they were either diagnosed or didn't have much time left due to a terminal illness.  On top of that, these people living in the city of Garden Grove, aren't the most well-off people in the world.  These are relatively young people; they still had their lives to live, but that skeletal hand had reached for those shears, soon to break their threads.

     Each time my companion and I plan on going door to door, I hear myself say "no more."  My mind and my physical self was ready to go out and preach, but my heart was sore; it pleaded that I don't open those sutures that I've worked so hard to sew.  "Anything but talking to those people."  It seriously wasn't easy for me to do go out and work-- there was a trail of tears leaving each doorstep whenever I did.

     Midst such, there's still a fire burning-- as much as I don't want to go door-to-door fearing such people may make themselves known unto us, there's a reason why such people were placed there.  Sure, it may just be coincidence, but this coincidence can lead to a blessing beyond imagination.  These people need what we have.  The very essence of what we teach is about reassurance.  Sure, it's sad to hear such, but recently, I've discovered that the help we can provide is even greater than the trials these people have to go through.  The gospel isn't called "good news" for nothing.  I can tell you now that stepping out of that apartment door, I have this in mind, desiring that people can find solace.  It's not an easy task, seeing so much suffering, but through each suffering soul is reason to rejoice.