A Tale from a Remote Forest
by Rob Fergusson, May 2006

Our Story

A long time ago, I found myself in a remote corner of northern South Korea. I had arrived, after an eight-hour drive, at a narrow valley hemmed in on both sides by steep ridges. The far end of the valley opened onto a finger of the sea.

This valley had, until recently, been blanketed by a dark forest. The forest remained on the slopes of the ridges, but the Koreans had scoured the floor of the valley down to bare earth. They were building a canal to bring seawater down the middle of the valley to cool the equipment inside the two massive nuclear power plants they were busy building alongside the canal. The Koreans didn't have much back then, but one thing they had a lot of was cheap labor. I saw thousands of workers in frenetic activity. Trucks and earthmovers were raising huge clouds of dust. I could already see two containment structures - the giant, domed, windowless buildings, with concrete walls four feet thick that would house the nuclear reactors and radioactive piping. Every building was surrounded by bamboo scaffolding teeming with workers.

As I watched this mammoth effort, a Jeep roared up and a burly Texan jumped out and greeted me, introducing himself as the construction manager. We talked a bit and then he invited me to hop into his Jeep for a better view of the project. I climbed in and he barreled off to the right ridge, where we followed a switchback road that zigzagged up that steep slope.

He stopped at the top and we climbed out of the Jeep. When I had been down in the valley I had noticed that there was something up on the top of this ridge. Now that I was up there I saw it was a huge antiaircraft gun installation, surrounded by a ten foot high fence topped with razor wire. I realized that we weren't far from North Korea, and if the North Koreans ever decided to be belligerent, these big fat nuclear power plants would be tempting targets.

I looked down at the valley floor as the Texan boasted of the project and complained of all the challenges faced. I watched those thousands of workers milling like ants. But as I watched, I found my vision kept drifting to the slope of the opposing ridge across the valley. It, too, was high and steep, and covered in a deep, dark green, primeval forest. I found myself tuning out the Texan and just staring at that quiet ridge.

Then something caught my eye. I wasn't sure what it was - it had only been there for a fraction of a second. I stared harder, and saw it again. It was a brief flash of bright red, about halfway up the slope of the ridge. I waited and saw it again, and realized it was something on the forest floor, visible only when the breeze moved the canopy of the trees.

I interrupted the Texan to ask what I was seeing over there. He told me it was a Buddhist monk's hut - a tiny little one room house painted in bright Chinese red lacquer. The monk had been there a very long time, since way back when this whole valley was just a remote forest. He told me that people still make the long trip to this valley on foot, to climb that ridge to that little red hut, so they can sit at the feet of that monk, and learn from him about truth or beauty.

I tell this story because most of you have very busy days filled with frenetic activity, just like on that valley floor. You work, pay bills, drive kids to appointments, shop, clean, cook, and on and on. On top of all that you may be consumed with the legal wranglings of divorcing.

Meanwhile, many of you are also seeking answers. If you are separating or divorcing, you may be questioning what went wrong in the marriage, whether there is anything wrong with you, whether you will find happiness again, how you will find the faith to face down fears and uncertainties, or whether there is some great meaning in all you are going through.

I suspect you won't find the answers you seek among the hubbub of daily life, like that valley floor. You'll find them someplace quiet and peaceful, that place you make in your life that is like that monk's house under the trees.

Wishing you vision, recovery and stability;
Rob