Relative Normalcy

It's strange the way my life here has become disconnected. In my little apartment, I can smell the bleach and the cockroach spray most of the time, and I can hear the produce man much of the day, but inside my walls, it is quiet and peaceful. I think and pray about my family so often, thinking about Mandy all alone, thinking about Kate and James taking care of the kids, thinking about Scott missing Mandy, thinking about Mom and Dad and their scattered children and grandchildren, thinking about Meg and Mike and how much I want to cry when I think about them sharing my little slice of Korea with me. And, of course, the prayer list goes on: I miss everyone so much.
Then I walk outside my strange little apartment. Korea is still foreign to me, but it is becoming familiar, and yes, almost comfortable. I still hate going to the grocery store and I don't like shopping, but that hasn't changed since I moved here. When my neighbor's kitchen is flooded for a couple of weeks running, I nod my head sympathetically and offer to help clean up. When I pass a strange bar with a man playing an accordian to an empty room, I walk past a couple of times, looking at his turned back and cocker spaniel. When Jenny and Young Hee start playing old Michael Jackson and Madonna songs and dancing like they are on some reality show, I laugh and try to join in. When I walk into the school in the morning, dreading another day babysitting kids, pleading with them to learn, trying to get them to listen, and attempting to keep alert, then suddenly, another day is over.
This has become the relative normalcy here.