A first-Class seat of miracle
Pre-eclampsia
When we arrived in Pakistan, we went to a small town with many old buildings.
Many of the small houses there were covered with large cloths instead of having windows.
There was also a house where missionaries had lived long ago.
Although it was old and worn, it still stood as it was.
I felt deep respect as I thought about how those missionaries came all the way here to serve, especially considering how difficult it was to even get a passport in those days.
Our lodging was on a small hill, giving us a view of the surroundings, including a beautifully built church across the road.
We were welcomed by a wonderful pastor and his wife, along with their three children, who opened the door to our new beginning.
I stayed in a small room with several beds made from woven ropes called "charpai."
The beds creaked with even the slightest movement.
We spent sleepless nights trying not to make noise, staying as still as possible.
After spending a few days there together, I was assigned a room where I could stay alone, marking the beginning of a new phase in my journey
The room was a neat, small space.
When I opened a door in the corner, I found a toilet with a sink and mirror just a short distance away.
So, I also turned the bathroom into a kitchen.
I bought a small stove and placed it under the sink, turning the space into my complete "sweet home."
It was my very symbolic home that the bathroom and kitchen were together.
It was my precious space that made me feel all the beginning and end of human beings deeply.
In that small room, I started my mission work with the baby growing inside me.
I began learning the language by praying together with the other missionaries and attending the local church, forcing myself to grasp and speak the unfamiliar words.
Fortunately, my morning sickness wasn't too severe, but I struggled to suppress the nausea by chewing on pomegranates and lemons.
I forced myself to swallow all the unfamiliar foods, none of which suited my taste.
Even the dishes cooked with white, hardened shortening, flavored with masala, and greasy meat with boiled vegetables were too rich for my taste due to the morning sickness.
One day, while returning from a meeting in Lahore, I stopped by a small shop and discovered Choice coffee and chocolates in a tin case.
Just looking at them sweetly awakened my withered senses.
Without realizing it, I eagerly spent all the money in my wallet to buy those expensive items.
I came to this country to serve because God told me to,
but it seems that my stomach and taste buds were not yet prepared.
As time passed, my belly grew, and my body began to swell.
People around me were concerned, thinking it might be signs of preeclampsia.
I felt guilty for causing any trouble to the team.
Two of the missionary wives I worked with were also pregnant, yet they seemed so strong and resilient.
But why was every step so difficult for me?
A pregnant woman missionary, here alone without her husband!
It was a curious situation for everyone, and many questioned whether it was possible for me to give birth and raise a child in Pakistan while serving at a missionary hospital without any help.
"I can do it! I want to do it!
God has been training me to be strong since I was a child!"
Then one day, a couple of OB-GYN doctors from Hong Kong came to this remote village for medical volunteer work.
I met with them briefly, struggling to communicate in my broken English, sharing my situation, and receiving a lot of help.
After exchanging faxes back and forth for a long time, it was decided that I would return to Korea to give birth and match my husband's return time from the military, so we could come back together.
Finally, at 8 months and 2 weeks pregnant, I headed to the airport to catch a flight back to Korea, but suddenly there was a problem during check-in.
The airline informed me that I couldn't board the flight because I had passed their 8-month pregnancy limit.
I burst into tears.
Tears that I had held back for so long now flowed endlessly.
Once again, my path was blocked!
I begged the airline staff in my broken Urdu, explaining that my family and husband were not in Pakistan, and that I had preeclampsia and couldn't give birth alone.
The airline manager, who had been quietly watching my tearful plea, smiled gently and said,
"When did you learn Urdu like that?
If you pay a bit more, I can upgrade you to a seat that you can take.
you just sign here. Don't cry! I'll guide you.
I'll give you the first seat in first class, and a stewardess will sit next to you.
You can safely reach Korea where your husband is."
Embarrassed by how I had just been crying like a child, with shoulders shaking and snot running down my face, the manager kindly treated me like a child and helped me through the next steps.
For the first time in my life, I received a first-class ticket for seat number 1.
I was so grateful, repeatedly thanking him with "Shukriya" and safely boarded the flight to Korea.
Tears of joy flowed endlessly on the plane.
Every step had felt blocked, dragging me into despair, but now, suddenly, the doors were dramatically opening wide.
It was an overwhelming shock.
When I first came to Pakistan, I met the opposite of the painful memories on the plane,
so all the memories of that fear seemed to heal.
Although it was only a few months, those were times hard to digest.
Each time, my heart had to endure the anxious and despairing processes with all its strength, becoming more resilient over time.
The journey back to Korea, sitting in first class with the kind stewardess, felt like a refreshing waterfall of a gift from God to the daughter who had lived with all her heart and the baby she carried.
*Shukriya : thanks in Urdo
