(Editor’s Note: Best essays on “Christmas in My Memory”. Inquirer Lifestyle has chosen the following as the best among the essays submitted by readers. The theme is Christmas in My Memory. First: “Keeping the Christmas magic” by Lollétte Oliva-Alipe; second: “A real Santa Claus” by Sylvia Europa-Pinca; third: “Warm in winter” by Ma. Pia F. Luque. Also chosen were: “Of apple pies and fruitcakes: Christmas memories with Mama” by Maria Angela B. Brazan; “The twelfth month” by Alex R. Castro. We will e-mail them for details about their tokens of recognition.)
“Persons are gifts of God to me that come all wrapped so differently . . .” —from a Mass song I learned in fourth grade
Pia, you must promise! Don’t throw the ramen,” warned 12-year-old Kiwo, the only English speaker in the family.
Nestled among his mom’s many gifts, his favorite noodles were about to burst out of my suitcase. He worried I would dump it at the airport to avoid excess luggage fees. Laughing, I assured him I wouldn’t.
It was almost Christmas and the end of my three-month sojourn in Seoul. I lived in a high-rise apartment with my hosts, Mr. and Mrs. Jung and their sons Kiwo and eight-year-old Kiju.
Snow fell softly and we looked out to a pristine landscape of beautiful, almost blinding white. It was the perfect counterpoint to a thrilling but stressful journey.
With more guts than good sense, I jumped headfirst into a teacher exchange program, lured by the promise of fall and winter in South Korea.
It was exciting to be cosmopolitan but I soon grappled with the blues, swept by rough waves of loneliness. Since I was the only foreigner in a large community, the strange and new overwhelmed me daily. I felt empty in every crowd and walked on glass all the time.
I was failing my classes for I could hardly be understood. At night I slept fitfully, waking at odd hours, unmoored and lost.
Mrs. Jung, Kiwo and Kiju saved me. The trio was relentless in keeping me comfortable and entertained. With Mr. Jung working long hours, we bonded at home or on the road, talking incessantly, eating a lot and having fun.
Mrs. Jung and Kiju spoke in halting, broken English but with Kiwo’s help and a Korean-English smartphone app, we never ran out of stories to share. Maybe it was Mrs. Jung’s infinite kindness or the boys’ easy laugh but I began to enjoy the unusual: snacking on dried octopus in the market or drinking leftover rice tea as cold medicine.
I also survived winter as the only adult in Seoul with pockets full of cartoon hot packs, which Mrs. Jung would boil for us each morning.
On weekends, Mr. Jung would drive us around for sightseeing. At the Lantern Festival along Cheonggyecheoon River, the bright lights of capiz lanterns from home seemed to wink at me, as if to say I would be all right.
We would walk in harsh weather to a Catholic church, so I could pray while they waited outside. I missed Simbang Gabi but I
found communion with these gentle Buddhists who believed I was a relative in a past life. There was no puto bumbong or tsokolate but I began to crave soju and galbi (barbecue) on cold nights.
Soon my happiness grew and I carried my contentment. I had played tough for so long that I had forgotten the joy of sweet surrender.
Song lyrics about people as God’s gifts came back to me. I loved that song as a child but I grew up, was broken and lost faith.
I do not think I would have done for a stranger what the Jungs did for me.
My time with them showed that indeed, faith and love know no boundaries of race or religion. If the first Christmas taught us to open our hearts, I am just too happy I was blessed with the best gift.
