His name, we learned, was Mun-Hee, but we called him “Money”. He was 13 or 14, and his mother did laundry, by hand, along the Pukan River, for the guys in my unit, on the Demilitarized Zone (DMZ) in Korea. He was a happy goffer, ran errands, did small jobs and was generally helpful, and, in turn, we were generous.
What we didn’t know, was that he was a “slicky-slicky-boy”, part of a group of thieves, the scourge of companies throughout our Division, who would enter our tents, in the middle of the night, silent as a mouse, looking for anything of value; clothing, weapons, military exchange coupons, etc. The story was that many soldiers had their foot-lockers picked clean by these thieves, while the guys slept on.
One day, “Money” led by Umma, his mother, came to us, both with their heads down. He was carrying a box. Still looking at the ground, Umma said, “joesong habnida”, which, when translated, was an expression of embarrassment and sorrow. Money had tears as he handed over the box that contained clothes, a camera, and a lot of small items that Money took during night-time visits to our tent. The guys accepted the apology and elected to continue to use Umma’s laundry services. For the next several weeks, Money slept the night at the entrance to our tent, assuring us that there would be no further invasion of thieves. We never found out if that was Money’s initiative or Umma’s.
God often leads us on circuitous routes in order for us to learn an important lesson. My fellow soldiers and I had arrived in Korea through the Port of Inchon, and travelled the 40 miles or so to our base near Tongduchoni, on the DMZ. We had seen the devastation and ruin that the war had caused on the good people of Korea. The men were gone, while the women and their families were left to survive. Doing laundry in the river was one way to eke out a living. Their strength and resolve was something to see. Among most of my brothers, the predominant feeling towards the Korean people, in that limited exposure, was compassion.
I had arrived in Korea, an eighteen-year-old, unsure of what I was about to undertake, and scared. Wearing a steel helmet, holding a loaded M1, with a belt of ammunition around my waist, was a long step away from anything I had experienced. By the time my division departed from Korea, I was older, and had matured far beyond that year. God had taught me to look beyond the man-made stereotyping of evil, to the human element; their honesty, their openness, their care for one another.
My son, whose eyesight prevented him from serving in the military, once told me he was glad he didn’t have to serve. I may have said something about missing an experience, but I do know God has many different ways to teach us what he wants us to learn. Those lessons unfold throughout our lives. And some of those lessons are extremely painful in the loss of loved ones and, in other adversities that come our way.
We sometimes wish we had a time capsule so we can go back and avoid some difficult moments, maybe relive them more productively. But in doing that, we would miss the lesson, the growth that comes with working our way through or around adversity. We don’t want more adversity, but if we were honest with ourselves, we would realize that through that experience we have grown and learned. Which is a blessing.
For What It’s Worth.
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