Crying in Vain

"Daddy!"

My little friend broke the cardinal rule of rock climbing - she looked down.

"Daddy, help us!"

"Shh," I pleaded with her. "I know what I'm doing. We're going to be fine." But I suppose that my twelve-year-old assurance did little to allay her fears. I talked her into climbing, and I was not about to let her ruin the adventure.

She trembled in response as salty tears ran down her cheeks, pooling in tremulous splats against the crusty sandstone by our feet. The edge of the cliff was inches from our toes, but I confidently saw an easily accessible ledge about a foot down. Somehow, we were already about 40 feet high, at a point at which the ground seemed twice that distance away, utterly heightened by a lack of safety equipment.

"Just don't fall, Amy." This was the advice I gave to the child not but 6 years old, echoing a similar soothing voice I had heard so many times before when my dad and I encountered hairy situations during our own experiences on mountainsides. I was used to this - she was not. My arrogance only exacerbated her anxiety.

By this time, I had crawled to the lower ridge. "Climb on down - I'll catch you. I promise." She remained firmly pressed up against the cliff face, desperately trying to grasp at any crack in the rock that might hold her small body. Her heaving chest forced out tears that had long since dissipated and she looked down upon me with absolute panic.

Still, I refused to call down for help. Her pitiful cries were no match for the howling wind that began to assault us, whistling a death-song in our ears. I began to wonder if we would survive.

"Amy, calm down - Amy. Step down. See that rock there. Put your right foot (this one, Amy), put your right foot down on this rock. Good. Now put your other foot on this one, jutting out over here."

Slowly, I coaxed her down onto the ledge. She sat completely motionless, balanced precariously on the periphery. It was as though she had given up hope. I have never seen a person so scared in my life.

Finally, I bellowed down to the campsite. A few minutes later, Amy's dad breached the viewing threshold, and we saw him making his way up the cliff. As he approached from below, climbing higher and higher, Amy leaped into his arms from about three feet.

It was all over.

Back on lower ground, Amy's dad walked over to me. Fury flushed in his eyes. "That was really dumb, Kalila. Really dumb."

I stared at him, wondering what would have happened if I had killed his little girl. Dread and remorse poured into my heart. I said the only thing I could think of: "Yes, Sir. I know - now."

In New Light

I have been to this place many times before, this Garden of the Gods. It is the go-to attraction for when out-of-towners visit, and so this is where we go when company stops by. A comfortable familiarity surrounds these grounds as I sit and watch the passers-by, hoping to see something new, something of intrinsic value unbeknownst to me from precedence past.

And so I look. There is the rock climber, wiping sweat from his brow as a sprinkle of chalk dusts his right cheek. On the other side of the rock formation is the obligatory child, scrambling across the lower boulders skirting the edge, aspiring to become the man beside him. He too, is covered in grime, agilely moving foot to rock and hand to hold across the red sandstone, working as though one with experience and the expertise of a young naiveté of danger.

A gaggle of spectators is mesmerized by the aforementioned action, watching with silent admiration. The still air is interrupted only by a passing fire engine, sirens blaring in Doppler Effect, careening towards some emergency in the distance, far away from the park. I wonder if these people will ever view this beauty in the same way again. A bird sings a mourning tune, belting out a song from a high turret in the rocks.

My stomach calls with equal fervency when a waft of lunch titillates from a nearby building. Smoked meat mingles pleasantly with soft pine and my hunger intensifies.

What is here but the rocks and the people and the children and the animals and the ambient sounds and the trees and the pebbles beneath me on the dirt path? Individually there is nothing special. Collectively, they become a concert of majesty and living testament to God's glory.

The place has not changed. The people have not differed in representation or activity. And yet, I see the special in the not-so-special. Perhaps I have changed. Conceivably, I have seen the beauty in God's creation and realized that they are all a part of His intricate splendor.

Epiphany

I have lived a privileged life. I know this. I've always known this. But there was a time in which these were just word. An ordinary ideology. A meaningless mantra. Not abandoned, not aborted, but flown across the world, and into the arms of two wonderful people. I am thankful for the difficult sacrifice that my birth mother must have made. To live in a family supported by the military, and experience cultures, and people unaccessed by so many of my American peer, I am grateful for the many opportunities she gave me. To be raised in a home centered on Jesus Christ, I am indebted to my Savior for finding and seeking me out. To my parents, my real and true parents, I am overwhelmed with the love that they have for me and continue to show. And yet, much of this went ignored for a large duration of my life. Not due to apathy, but rather, to ignorance.

My journey began on 11 September 1985, flying nineteen hours across the Pacific Ocean, and landing in Des Moines, Iowa. Apparently, I was smiling as the adoption agency representative carried me off of the gangway. Three generations were present, cooing and fawning over the newest addition to an already large family. A few hours later, my parents and I spent our first night together in my grandparents' RV, cuddling together in the guest bed, getting to know each other, learning every nuance, smiling, giggling, laughing, loving, and we drove home to Bellevue, Nebraska the next day. I don't remember much, but I do remember toddling beneath the church serving counter, pleasantly requesting, "cookie?" of the nice ladies who towered above. I remember walking over the glass-floored hallway, and looking down at the vast emptiness below in the House on the Rock. I remember sliding down my first water slide at the Noah's Ark Water Park. I remember playing peek-a-boo with Daddy during the night. I remember napping in the crook of Mommy's arm. And I remember feeling an incredible sense of security, though unable to pinpoint it at the time.

When I was two, the Air Force sent my family to Sicily, Italy. While most children were watching Sesame Street and Mister Rogers' Neighborhood, I was climbing the Swiss Alps, visiting magnificent castles, chasing pigeons in Piazzo San Marco, swimming in the Olympian pools of Innsbruck, and in the calm shores of the Mediterranean, exploring ancient Roman coliseums, running through salt mines and ice palaces, and peering over the cliffs of Hitler's summer home in Austria. Everywhere I went, I was known by all. Known by name. Recognized persoanlly, even when my parents went unnoticed. I remember Weird Harry, the neighborhood renaissance man, who used to lead all the local children around the block, parading with pots and pans and general ruckus. I remember Carnevale, with its masks and confetti. And I remember the Italian people, kind and generous, who pinched my cheeks red and declared, "Bella bambina!" to all within earshot.

At age four, we moved to Florida to live half an hour from Walt Disney World, and fifteen minutes from the beach. I swam with manatees in the Gulf of Mexico, and sharks and stingrays in the Atlantic Ocean, got stung by jellyfish, sailed in boats, watched space shuttles launch and land, made snowmen out of plastic bags filled with newspaper during Christmas, and had full run of Cape Canaveral. I saw sand sculptures, watched Japanese Onkekoza Demon Drummer perform, traveled all the way to Chicago - by myself - to visit family, dressed as a lion for "The Lion Sleeps Tonight," and learned how to ride a two-wheeler. I remember Via De Cristo, and singing De Colores. I remember learning about God from the kindly pastor, sitting before the altar during church, and I remember how happy my parents seemed when they first "felt the Holy Spirit."

Albuquerque, New Mexico was our next stop shortly after I turned seven. Here, I discovered skiing, the Indian culture, and the Mexican people, ate fry bread, rooted for the Dallas Cowboy (though I never once saw a game), voted for President Bush in the mock school election, studied my own Korean heritage, and met my first few long-term friends. Terribly, I learned about gangs, and drugs, and the fear of rape. But I also first heard about Jesus in this place, giving my life to Him, and asking to be baptized. I made my proclamation in a high school swimming pool, along side of my dad and half a dozen others. I remember the look that he gave me of pride.

Ten years old, and I found myself moving to Colorado Springs, Colorado. I gained friends that I still have today, found stability, grew restless, moved into a house, struggled with putting down roots, pleased to finally have a place to call home. I encountered death: my dog, my great grandma, my 28 year-old uncle. I encountered life, a new life of settling down (though I never truly did).

Life continued on, uneventful, pleasant. And yet, on the morning of my 16th adoption anniversary, my life changed. The world changed. Drastically. I will never forget where I was, nor what I was doing, when it happened. Algebra class. Sitting and reading "Left Behind" in a few minutes of downtime. A phone ring pierced through the ambient sounds of conversation. My teacher's face went sheet-white.

"What do you mean, 'turn on CNN?'" A plane just crashed into the World Trade Center. Oh yeah, it's one of those tall buildings you see on the New York skyline. Terrible loss, those few people on the plane. I wonder how they will fix that hole in the side of-- Oh, my Lord! The building! It's collapsed - there's rubble and dist everywhere. Screaming. Was that a person who just leaped from--

The footage was repeated over and over to the extent that no one realized we saw the second plane hit until after the fact. We were sent home. We weren't allowed back for another month, and only then, on a delayed schedule, being educated on a military instillation. It was such a surreal feeling to never hear airplanes in the sky, to never see a jet trail of any kind, save for a loneF-16, making the rounds between the Air Force Academy, Peterson Air Force Base down south, and Kirtland Air Force Base in Albuquerque.

And I was depressed. And angry. Everyone was depressed and angry, but I felt a deepness to the whole situation that I couldn't identify, as if I was connected in some way. But I didn't live in New York, or Washington D.C., of Pennsylvania. I didn't know anyone directly affected by the tragedy, anyone who died. But I could not shake this feeling.

That evening, my parents and I prayed for those in pain, for the families, for the victims, for the government, for the terrorist, for the future. We prayed in supplication. We prayed in intercession. And then we went out to eat, doing out very best to have a nice time, celebrating the special event in our lives, which predated any of the horror experienced on that day.

Much later in the evening, I finally realized the correlation. On the anniversary of the day I was granted my citizenship, freedoms, opportunities, the American way, those very ideals that I hold dear, were directly attacked. If America was to go to war right away, I asked for my parents' blessing to enlist. Not out of anger. Not out of vengeance. But out of a sense of duty. A thank you to the country who has given so much to me. It was on this day that I saw who I was, who I am, and who I strive to become.