Jun in Winter

Jun is a man I met recently. He lives in Seoul. Seoul Station, to be precise.

Last Sunday, TM and I met Jun during our weekly outreach at the station. We had prayed that God would lead us to someone who spoke Korean and who could be a liaison for us as we worked to better serve the homeless community. Enter Jun.

Jun was personable and spoke good English. From him we learned that there are about 200 people living at the station. Many are alcoholics. They need nutritious food. He requested milk and ham + cheese sandwiches. We agreed to meet the following Sunday at 11am.

This past Sunday, BD + BD and I arrived at the station, toting milk and sandwiches. We prayed that Jun would be there, at the designated meeting spot. He was. 

Jun walked with us around the area, introducing us to his friends as we distributed the food. At one point, he led us to an underground thoroughfare that reeked of urine. It was especially chilly there, like a wind tunnel, and I counted at least a dozen people huddled under blankets.

Desperately wanting to do something more, I gave Jun my bright blue scarf to wrap around his thin frame. I knew my gloves were too small and girly for him, so I said I'd bring him a pair next Sunday.

Today, while walking to and from work, my own hands were cold even though I had on gloves, a thick down jacket, plus a warm scarf. And I thought of Jun.  

How will he get through tonight or any other night? 

How does anyone living on the streets survive a Seoul winter?

Is not this the kind of fasting I have chosen:  to loose the chains of injustice and untie the cords of the yoke, to set the oppressed free and break every yoke? 

Is it not to share your food with the hungry and to provide the poor wanderer with shelter— when you see the naked, to clothe them, and not to turn away from your own flesh and blood?  -Isaiah 58:6-7  

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