Hyesuk’s Famous Pumpkin Pie Recipe

A few months after we were married, my wife Hyesuk and I moved from Korea to Fort Meade Maryland.  It was challenging for her to adjust to a new culture.  Imagine leaving your family, friends, language, job, and entire way of life behind.  Fortunately, her English language skills, adventurous spirit, and the close friendship of a neighbor helped her adapt in record time.   Brenda Ross was truly a blessing to our family from the first day we arrived.   The help of a good friend makes all the difference when you’re trying to navigate in a new world.  Hyesuk taught Brenda how to make Korean food, Brenda returned the favor, and I ate well.

Hyesuk took an immediate liking to American appliances.  I laughed until my sides ached when she told me that, “I love my new Washdisher!”  A stove with an oven was also new to her.  At that time, most Koreans cooked over gas burners and some still used charcoal.  Baking opened a brand new culinary world for her.

We’d only been in our new home a few weeks when I came home from work to find six pumpkin pies cooling on the dining room table.  One by one, they disappeared as she visited five of our new neighbors.  I was pleased when the door stayed shut and one pie remained.  After dinner, Hyesuk served dessert and watched with interest as I took my first bite.  There wasn’t any hope of masking the experience. The pie left my contorted mouth faster than it went in.  HyeSuk quickly took a small bite, ran to the kitchen, and then ran out the door.  Over the next half hour, I watched as the table once again held six pies.

 It didn’t take long to unravel the mystery.  When we left Korea, the movers must have taken a glass jar holding a small amount of sugar and poured it on top of a jar containing a large amount of salt.  When she was making her pies, Hyesuk only saw the small layer of sugar on top.  The filling in her recipe was made from scratch and required a cup of sugar for each pie.  Unfortunately, the six cups of sugar that should’ve gone in the filling had been replaced with six cups of salt.

 While they never let Hyesuk forget the event, I’m convinced the experience endeared her to the neighbors (plus none of them actually ate any pie).

Fighting In Church - A New Ending

Setting the Stage 

Picture three young kids all lined up on a couch, none of their feet touching the ground, as their young mother reads to them…

 (For my sister, Chris, and my brother, Gary, please close your eyes and repeat with me in unison)

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1 Corinthians 13:1-13 (NIV)

1.  If I speak in the tongues of men and of angels, but have not love, I am only a resounding gong or a clanging cymbal.

2.  If I have the gift of prophecy and can fathom all mysteries and all knowledge, and if I have a faith that can move mountains, but have not love, I am nothing.

3.  If I give all I possess to the poor and surrender my body to the flames, but have not love, I gain nothing.

4.  Love is patient, love is kind. It does not envy, it does not boast, it is not proud.

5.  It is not rude, it is not self-seeking, it is not easily angered, it keeps no record of wrongs.

6.  Love does not delight in evil but rejoices with the truth.

7.  It always protects, always trusts, always hopes, always perseveres.

8.  Love never fails. But where there are prophecies, they will cease; where there are tongues, they will be stilled; where there is knowledge, it will pass away.

9.  For we know in part and we prophesy in part,

10.  but when perfection comes, the imperfect disappears.

11.  When I was a child, I talked like a child, I thought like a child, I reasoned like a child. When I became a man, I put childish ways behind me.

12.  Now we see but a poor reflection as in a mirror; then we shall see face to face. Now I know in part; then I shall know fully, even as I am fully known.

13.  And now these three remain: faith, hope and love. But the greatest of these is love.

My parents used a carrot and stick approach to our discipline.  Mom generally held the carrot and my Dad wielded the stick.   Whenever, Mom caught us arguing or fighting, she’d sit us down and read 1 Corinthians 13.  Church folk were impressed by our ability to recite a whole chapter from the Bible; they just didn’t know “The rest of the story.”

I don’t know what the record is for fights inside a house of worship, but I wouldn’t be surprised if my brother Gary and I were in contention.  Mom played the piano and Dad was an usher.  Without a parent between us, we didn’t have any qualms about settling our disputes physically and didn’t put enough thought into the certain consequences.  I’ve always joked that I didn’t mind going to church in my youth, I just didn’t care much for the spanking part.   

While most of our clashes took place in our pre-school years, the last physical altercation of our youth (inside or outside of church) actually took place when I was 17.  I arrived late to find Gary in my favorite place, the end of the last pew closest to the door.  The place was special to me because I could rest my elbow on the arm rest and sleep.  Being the first person out the door was also an important factor to me.  The visiting evangelist missed seeing me knock Gary’s elbow off the arm rest and hip check him over, but he did catch Gary planting a solid left hook into my gut.  I didn’t retaliate, not because I was finally putting my “childish ways behind me.”  He’d knocked the wind out of me and I was near totally disabled.  Gary likes to point out that the last of our battles was a win for him.  I like to point out that I departed immediately after the service, while he was receiving a personalized sermon on “Loving your brother” from the visiting evangelist ;)

I’ve always admired my Mom’s persistence and patience with me, particularly during a period in my life when my attitude was bad and my behavior was clearly wrong.  I don’t know how I could have repeated the words so many times without understanding the message. Now that I’ve put a few decades under my belt, I’ve come to appreciate the grains of wisdom imparted to me.  She was living verse 7, “It (Love) always protects, always trusts, always hopes, always perseveres” and while she was engraving the meaning of love on our hearts she was also engraving the very same words on her own.

Note: After I'd already posted this story, my sister Chris responded with an email; "I can't go to a wedding without laughing when they quote that scripture!" When we were little, I'm sure we must have wondered what the couple had been fighting about. Chris is just lucky the scripture isn't commonly used at funerals. If I die first, she'd better bite her cheeks ;)

Now picture a 60-year-old man sitting in a pew at his Mom’s funeral, waiting to read 1^st Corinthians 13, and sharing our family story.  With my normal unease of public speaking eclipsed by fear of breaking down emotionally, the moment arrived.  I rose from the pew and started walking to the podium.  As I walked by my brother Gary, I turned toward him and stopped.  With a circling motion of my hand, I beckoned him to come closer.  Sitting in the second row, he was compelled to rise and lean over the pew.  His puzzlement was quickly replaced by shock as I landed a solid right jab on his shoulder.  While my original impulse, coming moments before rising, was to only deliver a symbolic tap, I’m blaming the actual outcome on adrenaline and his forward movement.  Later in the day, Gary sent me this picture.

I really didn’t have to respond to Gary’s obviously doctored picture, but decided it wouldn’t be brotherly not to.

At the meal following the service, I asked the minister if he’d ever seen anyone get hit during a funeral.  It was a first for him, although he did recount a fight in the vestibule between the mother of the bride and the mother of the groom.  One of the pallbearers from Shiloh Children’s Ranch told me the punch was “unexpected” and that he actually liked it.  If I'd actually thought things through, I'd have waited until Mom's second service in Cheyenne Wells in front of family and friends who know us better.

Most importantly, I know Gary holds no ill will.  With little effort, I’m sure he can picture Grandpa Bill, Granny, and Aunt Sandy looking down from heaven, pointing, and laughing loudly while Mom and Grandma Dorothy stand by covering their eyes muttering “those boys.”  I truly know what my brother cares about the most; a loving bond, an interesting story to share, and knowing I’ll have to be on guard every time we’re ever in church together again.

The Lost Lamb

My daughter, Laura, looks at this picture and likes to point out that a significant feature of her childhood, was that she “Owned clothes that matched the house’s tablecloths.” I think my wife looks at it and remembers a wonderful time in her life where she spent countless hours with her daughter exercising their creative talents. I look at this picture and immediately recall a solitary winter evening, and how it influenced my understanding of what’s truly important in this life. 

It was a cold, windy night in Misawa Japan and the ground was covered in a blanket of snow. Hyesuk was out attending a women’s function at church and left me at home to care for Bobby and Laura. After feeding, bathing, and putting both kids to bed, I turned on the TV and sat down on the floor by the coffee table to work on a jigsaw puzzle. I vaguely remember Laura coming up behind me and giving me a hug around the neck, but I was barely distracted from the TV or my puzzle and didn’t even question why she was out of bed.

Several hours passed before Hyesuk came home. As was her custom, the first words out of her mouth requested a status report on her children. I informed her that while she was out socializing, I’d fed, bathed, and put both of them to bed. Hyesuk stepped into their room to kiss them goodnight, and immediately questioned why Laura wasn’t in her bed. Remembering that she’d got up earlier, and suspecting she’d probably gone to our bed, I went upstairs to check. When I didn’t find her there, my concern turned to worry and then to panic as I quickly checked every room without success. With Hyesuk alternately yelling Laura’s name and screaming at me, we went room-to-room methodically checking every possible place my little girl could be. I ransacked the closets and checked every drawer. I opened every cupboard, the washing machine and dryer, and even the refrigerator. I remember a feeling of terror when I realized she wasn’t in the house. Laura knew how to open doors.

I was sincerely praying for help as I ran outside screaming Laura’s name. After only a few seconds, I realized that yelling and looking for tracks wasn’t going to work. The snow wasn’t fresh; we’d already been out playing during the day. We were living in a rural area surrounded by fields and woods. It was hard enough to keep track of the kids during the day while we watching them.  In desperation, I hurried back into the house to call for help. Our phone was on a stand by the wall to the left of the picture. As I reached for the phone, a wave of relief engulfed me. Sticking out from under the tablecloth was a tiny bare foot. Laura had climbed up on the chairs and gone to sleep under the table.

The next morning at church I read the Parable of the Lost Sheep. I was able to keep my composure, but every word was spoken with gratitude and understanding.

Luke 15:3-7

³ Then Jesus told them this parable: ⁴ “Suppose one of you has a hundred sheep and loses one of them. Doesn’t he leave the ninety-nine in the open country and go after the lost sheep until he finds it? ⁵And when he finds it, he joyfully puts it on his shoulders ⁶ and goes home. Then he calls his friends and neighbors together and says, ‘Rejoice with me; I have found my lost sheep.’ ⁷ I tell you that in the same way there will be more rejoicing in heaven over one sinner who repents than over ninety-nine righteous persons who do not need to repent.

Baseball Memories

Baseball - This Post is for my son Bobby and  my nephew Josh who just became a father.  I’m certain Bobby's memories are as precious as mine.  I know Josh already anticipates the wonderful possibilities graciously set before him.

Over the last few days, I’ve been enjoying this year’s World Series (especially game six) and reliving some of my finer days.  While we were living in California, I would often come home to find my young son Bobby sitting on the front porch with two gloves and a ball.  At those moments, there was little need for discussion as we’d embark on a ritual that was sometimes interrupted by dinner and more than often by darkness.  While the beginning didn’t require conversation, we’d soon be talking about whatever crossed our minds.  The throwing and catching took place in the background of our consciousness and became as thoughtless and effortless as breathing.  On one particularly memorable

 day, I came home to find a pitcher's mound constructed on our lawn and an especially eager kid sitting on the porch.  He’d spent most of the day hauling a substantial amount of dirt in his wagon to create an amazingly accurate mound.  It only took a few days before I received an order to return our lawn to military standards.  My wife joked that the neighbors probably thought we’d buried a body.  I wish I had a gift for knowing life’s truly significant moments while they’re happening.  I’d trade a whole stack of birthday and Christmas pictures for a single clear photo of Bobby pitching from his mound.

     When Bobby was ten, I experienced one of the finest summers of my life.  At the conclusion of a remarkable baseball season, I witnessed him pitch 12 shutout innings (with only 3 walks) to help win their Little League district tournament.  The right fielder was the hero of the championship game, making a miraculous catch to end the contest, sealing a narrow victory, and transforming the anguished face of my young boy watching from the mound into utter jubilation.  We were fortunate to have this day.  Our family should have already been gone on a new assignment in Hawaii, but a parent of significant military rank pulled strings to delay our departure (but not long enough).  Military teams don’t usually do well in California Little League and the thought never crossed anyone’s mind that we’d actually win.  While everyone was happy my family temporarily stayed behind, I had to board a plane the day Bobby pitched in the sectional tournament.  He gave up a homerun in the top half of the last inning and they lost by a run.  Bobby was fine.  He told me that, at the time, nobody was overly concerned about the homerun.  At that moment, the entire team believed they’d come back and win.   I was destined to be down in the dumps regardless of the outcome.

Fighting Insurgents in Australia

Baseball in Hawaii was a year-round event and tremendously competitive. Bobby played for Pearl Harbor Navy Base in the winter and Hickam Air Force Base in the summer. The district he played in has won the Little League World Series in Williamsport PA several times and military base teams hadn’t ever “officially” won a single game in the post season. While we were in Hawaii, I was often deployed to far away places to fight our nation’s enemies (see picture above). While I missed quite a few games, I was fortunate to be one of several hundred spectators who witnessed a talented team of military kids score a decisive victory on the field over Halawa Hawaii. Sadly, Halawa’s coach filed a complaint after the game and the win was taken away from the kids. Military members rotate during the summer and the team only had nine players left at the start of the district tournament. The team’s coach had unknowingly brought up two younger kids from the Minor League, in violation of the rules, and played both of them for one inning.  Halawa went on to win the district tournament and the Hickam team learned that what’s legal isn’t always fair. Though disappointed, Bobby had the right perspective, “We know we won.”

While America’s military is an all-volunteer force, their families are draftees. Starting over is the norm for military “kids.” When we left Hawaii for Korea, I thought competitive baseball was something Bobby would have to leave behind. Fortunately, my vision of the future isn’t any better than my ability to easily recognize significant present events. I don’t believe many seventh graders ever get a chance to play high school baseball, but Bobby and another kid (the talented son of a General officer) were both given a unique opportunity. They did well, even beating Seoul American HS for the first time in the school’s history. Bobby struck out Seoul’s senior star two times and scored the game ending run on a suicide squeeze play, off a perfectly executed bunt by the other seventh grader.   Our two years in Korea passed quickly and we were given another hardship ;)  tour in Hawaii. 

 Life is full of decisions, and sometimes even choosing between two good things is hard.   During Bobby's freshman year, he started golfing with a friend.  He soon discovered that he had a natural talent for the game and even scored a hole-in-one his first month playing. I golfed in a Thursday evening league, at a lighted Par-3 golf course and convinced Bobby to come along with me.  That evening, we were paired with both the course pro and the Radford HS golf coach.  They took an immediate interest in Bobby and instructed me not to teach him anything, and not to let him even watch me if possible ;)  That year, his baseball and golf coaches allowed him to participate in both sports, but he reached a fork in the road his sophomore year.  When he asked me what he should do, I found myself repeating my Dad's words, "You'll have to row your own boat."  I could scan a  whole pile of press clippings documenting the wisdom of his "golf" decision, but this story is about baseball.

More so than any of the big games, my most treasured baseball memory took place in Anchorage Alaska.  We were on a military flight that broke down, stranding us for several days during the Alaskan summer. Once again, I don’t have any pictures.  Even if I did, they’d still be a few pixels short of capturing the clarity I’ve retained to this day.  I vividly remember playing catch in the terminal’s parking lot.  We’d been playing a long time and dinner was long past.  Midnight was approaching, but it wasn’t getting dark.   Neither of us wanted to be the first to suggest stopping and we played on in comfortable silence.