Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3 | Part 4 | Part 5 | Part 6 | Part 7 | Part 8 | Part 9
Monday morning Joshua woke up with a fever — really bad timing considering we had an appointment to meet with his foster mom at 11. I dosed him up with Advil, and let him sleep instead of going down to breakfast, hoping he would feel better soon. I toyed for awhile with the idea of taking a cab to Holt instead of the subway so that he wouldn’t have to walk so much. But when I called Jamie to ask about it, she said it was really far via taxi and would cost a lot of money.
We decided to give the subway a shot, and do our best to make sure he got a seat instead of having to stand. He was still droopy at 10 when we left, but he made it onto the subway fine, and our ride went well. The new Holt building is a couple blocks away from the old one, and despite instructions, we did a bit of back-tracking to find it. By then, thanks to the Advil, Josh was feeling decent.
When we made it to the right building, the doorman sent us towards the elevator, explaining something jumbled about the elevator not opening on the 4th floor? Being from Missouri, I had to try doing it the unrecommended way, only to find that the elevator did indeed balk at the 4th floor. Only when we followed instructions (ride to the 5th floor, then walk down the stairs to the 4th) did we make it to where we belonged.
Toni, a very sweet social worker with an Australian (?) accent, ushered us into the room where Mrs. Che was waiting for us. She hadn’t changed much at all in 11 years, amazingly. It was pretty amazing to see that Joshua was now almost as tall as she, however! Josh was nervous at first, but her obvious warmth toward him soon had him feeling comfortable, and he spent much of the visit smiling. We talked for a little while, catching up on each other’s doings, with her doing lots of exclaiming over Joshua and patting him and smiling at him. She also told us that she prayed for him every day. How precious to know that someone from his early life still cares that much for him.
The social worker asked if we’d like to go someplace to eat bulgogi for lunch. We walked a couple blocks to a clean-looking restaurant where the tables were low, and you sat on small cushions on the wood floor. Each table had a grill in its center, into which they placed a rack full of glowing coals. Bulgogi was cooked for us right at the table, then cut into bite sized pieces with a scissors.
Many side dishes were set around the table as well: several kinds of kimchi, tofu, acorn jelly, plus normal ‘American’ salad. There was rice as well, and beautiful large leafs of lettuce in which to wrap your meat before popping it into your mouth. Yum.
Mrs. Che and Toni made sure the boys were supplied with all the food they could eat. I remarked on the tenderness of the beef, and asked Mrs. Che the secret. Turns out she is an accomplished cook, and soon explained to me the ins and outs of excellent bulgogi, one of the secrets of which, apparently, is marinating the beef in rice wine. I am going to try her method, and hope to share a recipe with you soon.
We had a nice visit over our meal, one that left my son feeling really good about the kind woman who cared for him before he came to us. I was really glad he had the chance to meet with her.
After the meal, she even walked with us to the store, so that I could buy the kind of wine she liked best for bulgogi. While we were there, she pulled Josh and Ben off to the side and told them to pick out a treat. They picked banana chips, which she bought for them. More glowing from the boys. More confirmation of what we’d seen all week: that there were a lot of people here who wanted them to be happy and feel loved.
When it was time to say goodbye, Toni pointed us to the nearest subway stop. Just as we were going down the steps, we turned and looked back, to see Mrs. Che looking after us as we left. We waved and smiled, and then reluctantly walked away down the stairs, the last of our meetings now done. But oh, the kindness of the people we’d met. Our hearts were full indeed.