The calligrapher's daughter_ a novel - Eugenia Kim [101]
He spoke somewhat perfunctorily about evil and not judging God, then his words trailed into contemplation. I was glad he grew quiet because this response, again, seemed too easy, like the obvious answer to a math problem. I wondered if pastors and their wives had these kinds of discussions, but couldn’t go further with this thought that hinted being this future pastor’s wife was a wish that lay like a fold in my desires, waiting to be exposed.
Whirring insects and the lissome willows swishing in the breeze calmed me, and as I waited for him to say more, I understood, as my mother had predicted, that it was his relaxed thoughtfulness that also gave me calm.
“Perhaps cost isn’t the right word,” said Mr. Cho, referring to my original question. “Human suffering can be endured by having grace. We are lifted from suffering by God’s gift of grace. Among the Protestants there are different viewpoints about man’s suffering and the existence of evil, and how we find redemption from it, or the degree to which we can overcome our flawed humanity.”
I was impressed with his intellectualism and seriousness, but even more, I was amazed and pleased that he would engage me in this type of conversation. “Do you mean Original Sin?”
“Yes. My namesake, John Calvin, believed our flaws were predetermined, that we are miserable beings, doomed to suffering; that we are degradations of God’s gift of life, and we should be overwhelmed with shame because of our basic human failure.”
I couldn’t help but react. “That’s so hopeless!” and I wondered why he was named after this man.
He raised a finger. “Until we find salvation.”
“Of course,” I said, embarrassed, sure that I’d exposed my ignorance and agnosticism.
“God gave us Christ as a human example of the divine, and intelligence to examine and accept our core of human failure, for only then can we understand that he was merciful to have let us continue to exist. In this way, we can truly appreciate God’s gift of his son.”
I remembered, as a child, that Mother had said the Chinese family who helped Father on March First were good Christians even if they were Buddhist. I thought of Teacher Yee, who I believed was in heaven despite the church’s insistence that suicides were denied this glory. The question that had formed those many years ago still remained: was this church doctrine or true religion? Was it all just theory to be batted about in study and debate, like the classics that had been interpreted and reinterpreted for centuries upon centuries, only to now have as much meaning as ink washed from paper? It was impossible to discuss this question with Mr. Cho on our first outing. Knowing that my mother would be aghast if she were to hear our conversation, I tried to lighten the subject, “Is this why you’re named Calvin? Did you choose it?”
“No!” He laughed. “My teacher and mentor Dr. Sherwood suggested it because I enjoy discourse and theory. He expected me to become a leader in theology. He has far too much confidence in me, I’m afraid.”
Absorbed in our talk, I spoke spontaneously, “I doubt that.”
“You flatter me, Miss Han.”
Then I blushed thoroughly, remembering that he was not only a man but a marriage prospect as well. My apology died on my lips as I was made wordless by his dazzlingly warm smile. I turned to fold an already folded towel and sliced the persimmon, which Mr. Cho proceeded to devour.
I began to pack the containers, fitting them together in the clever puzzle way of the Japanese, and was shocked when he handed me the lid and gathered the cups. Never before had I seen a man help at the table this way! Its oddness made the repugnancy resurface. “Here, I can do that. You’re distracting me with the cups.”
“Pardon me. We were just four boys and Mother was often ill. We learned to do nearly everything.” He stood to gather his side of the cloth. “I’m so relaxed after lunch that I quite forgot myself.”
“Now you’re teasing me,” I said. Immediately regretting the familiarity with which I’d spoken to him—as if