When the sunset checks its final clock and people worn out by the heat flow out of the city like the receding tide,
there—at the bend in the road— You blocked the wind and I heard a voice.
“Lord… did You call me? Ah… it was You calling!”
Like a child who falls asleep exhausted after play, then suddenly wakes and rises— so I, trembling, answered, “Yes, Lord.”
Though You placed new garments in my hands, I could not take off my old ways. Instead of following You in humility, I resisted, despised what was holy, and cast nets of hatred and laziness into Your sea instead of nets of love and sacrifice. Forgive me.
But Lord—now I understand. Now I know the meaning of Your call.
You want me to hold the hands of brothers and sisters suffering in their sickbeds. You want me to speak heaven’s mysteries to those who have lost hope. You want me to feed our northern brethren abandoned on the roadside without even a bowl of rice. You want me to show wandering wealthy souls the true home of their hearts. You want to give freedom to spirits crushed beneath thorns. You want to open the secret of the Word to those who think life is lived on bread alone.
Lord, I lay this flawed and fragile life at Your feet—receive it. Let the sweat of my soul and body push forward the wheels of Your ministry. Let Your great love not remain mine alone, but be shared freely, gladly, with all.
My Lord, my King— I wait for You like the green plains waiting for the rising sun, like a single blade of grass in the desert longing for rain, like a traveler guided only by starlight. Lead me.
Walking through the morning dew hanging on the tips of grass, brushing them aside with my toes as I go to greet the breaking dawn—this path always stirs my heart. When the mountain exhales its pale morning mist, the waking birds beat their wings with a sharp flutter, rising swiftly into the high sky.
The energy of the summer mountain overflows through its waterfalls. In the ancient trees weathered by centuries of wind and rain, in the newborn blades of grass, in the tiny nameless insects, even in a single stone rolling on the ground—life pulses with the same brilliance as yesterday and today.
As a child, burdened by vague fears and loneliness, I wandered endlessly through the quiet woods of Jangchun Park in Seoul. I was a timid ten‑year‑old girl, shy before others, but in the summer forest I discovered a generous heart. Within that heart were safety, freedom, and a beauty filled with mystery. Wild grasses growing as they pleased, fragrant flowers and leaves, the strange smell of decaying foliage, the ringing whistles of birds carried on the wind—these always welcomed my young soul with joy.
After climbing up and down the narrow forest paths until I was breathless, I would rest my tired legs and sit on a high rock, gazing out over the woods. I would dream vague dreams of what I might become. Should I be a pine tree? A cedar? Or a bird? What about this rock standing tall? Or the wind wandering from mountain to mountain? No—perhaps I’ll be the stream racing coolly through the valley! … No, I like myself just as I am!
And then, afraid the mountain might hold me there forever, I would dash down the path like a startled squirrel. When I reached the valley thick with trees, I would wash my hands, feet, and face in the icy water, then float acacia leaves and acorn leaves downstream.
Entering the village, carrying the scent of the forest on my whole body and holding purple evening primroses and wildflowers in my hands, I felt as though I had brought the mountain home with me. Though the world has many tall trees and beautiful flowers, my love for the nameless wildflowers blooming shyly in the lowest crevices of the forest has never changed.
Even now, the summer forest remains a companion to my soul. When I stand face‑to‑face with the forest, I always feel like crying—like a lost child running into the open arms of a waiting mother.
How many days have I wandered in the forests of life where I should not have gone? How often have I longed for things I should neither gain nor possess, losing sleep and avoiding the true place of my life? Now, as I carry the rings of nearly fifty years, I see how bent and weathered I have become.
Yet here I stand again, in the forest of this vast American continent—still called the land of dreams—and my heart stirs once more. But the summer forest tells me it is time to gather and quiet the scattered prayers I have carried. My soul whispers softly:
“O Lord, this is my plea:Let me become a small spring of water in this land.Even in the deepest valley where no one passes,let my soul be a little well that moistens the mountainsand becomes a resting place for thirsty creatures.”
The summer forest is the heart of God and the birthplace of what makes us human. There, the breath of creation remains untainted. There is mystery that embraces ruined hearts and fills impoverished souls. When wounded, it offers sacred healing; when joyful, it offers the fragrance of wildflowers. In low places and high places alike, the symphony of life overflows.
The summer forest is a sanctuary we must all one day return to.
풀잎에 매달린 아침이슬 방울들을 발끝으로 헤치며 먼동을 맞으러 가는 길은 언제나 설렌다. 산 안개 뽀얗게 아침호흡을 뱉어 놓으면, 어느새 잠이 깬 산새들이 첫 날갯짓을 ‘푸드득’거리며 높은 하늘로 치솟아 오른다.
여름 산의 에너지는 곳곳의 폭포수를 통해 넘쳐흐른다. 수백 년을 비바람에 시달린 거대한 고목과 이제 돋아난 풀잎 속에도, 이름을 알 수 없는 작은 벌레들 속에도, 나 뒹구는 돌멩이 하나에도 그 생명의 약동은 어제나 오늘이나 찬연하다.
어릴 적, 삶에 대한 막연한 두려움과 외로움 속에 인적이 없는 서울의 장춘공원 숲을 무던히도 헤매었다. 겁이 많고 남 앞에서 늘 수줍어 할 줄만 알았던 10세의 소녀가 여름 숲에서 발견한 것은 넉넉한 가슴이었다. 그리고 그 가슴 안에는 생명의 안위 감과 자유, 신비가 가득찬 아름다움이었다. 제멋대로 자라난 풀들과 우거진 향기 섞인 꽃들과 나뭇잎, 괴괴한 낙엽 썩는 냄새, 바람결에 쩌렁쩌렁하게 들려오는 새들의 휘파람 소리는 어린 영혼을 언제나 용납하고 환희로 맞이해 주었다.
좁은 숲길을 숨이 차도록 오르내리다가 피곤해져서 연약한 다리를 쉬면서, 어느 높은 바위 위에 앉아 숲을 바라본다. 그리고 나는 미래에 무엇이 될 것인가 하며 막연한 꿈을 꾸어보기도 했다. ‘소나무가 되어볼까? 잣나무가 되어 볼까? 아니면 새는? …여기 우뚝 서있는 바위는? 정처 없이 이산 저 산을 휘젓고 다니는 바람은 어떨까? 아니야, 계곡을 가르고 시원하게 달리는 시냇물이 될 거야!… 아니야! 난 이대로가 좋아!’ 하는 생각에 미치면 행여나 산이 나를 붙잡아 둘까 보아, 한 마리의 다람쥐처럼 정신없이 달음질쳐 내려오곤 하였다. 내려오는 길에 수목이 빽빽이 들어선 계곡을 만나게 되면 잠시 시리도록 차가운 물에 발과 손, 얼굴을 씻은 후에 아카시아 이파리와, 도토리 이파리를 물에 띄워 흘려 보내곤 하였다.
동네에 들어서면 온 몸에 뭍혀온 숲의 향기와, 손에는 보랏빛 달맞이꽃과 개아제비를 꺾어 들고 있어 산을 안고 온 기분이었다. 세상에 큰 나무도 많고 아름다운 꽃들도 많이 있어도, 숲속의 가장 낮은 틈바구니에서 가녀린 얼굴을 내밀고 피고지는 이름 모를 풀꽃들과의 사랑맺음은 그 때나 지금이나 변함이 없다.
지금도 여전히 여름 숲속은 내 영혼에 동무가 되어준다. 숲과 내가 마주 설 땐, 난 언제나 감동으로 울고 만 싶어진다. 길을 잃어버렸던 아이가 어느 길모퉁이에서 팔을 벌리고 선 어머니의 품속에 뛰어 안기듯이!
얼마나 많은 날들을 인생의 가지 못할 숲에서 나는 방황하였는가? 얻지도 말고 소유해서도 안될 것들을 위해, 밤잠을 이루지 못하고 그리워하며 내 진정한 삶의 자리를 회피하였던가? 어느새 50여년을 바라보는 나이테를 안고 휘여지고 굽어진 내모습을 바라보게 된다.
내가 서있는 이 땅! 아직도 꿈의 나라라 불리는 거대한 아메리카대륙의 숲속에 나는 이렇듯 다시 서서 가슴 설레인다. 그러나 이제 신께드리는 산만한 기도를 정리해야 만 될 때가 왔음을 여름 숲은 말하고 있다. 내 영혼은 나지막하게 속삭인다. ‘오! 나의 소원을 아뢰옵나니, 이 땅에 한 모금의 샘물 되게 하소서. 깊고 깊은 계곡에 인적이 오가지 않는 곳일지라도 내 영혼 작은 옹달샘 되어 산맥을 적시고 목마른 산 짐승들의 안식처가 되게 하옵소서.’
여름 숲은 하나님의 가슴이며 인간을 인간답게 만드는 산실이다. 그곳엔 태초의 숨결이 때묻지 않은 채, 폐허된 가슴을 용납하고 궁핍한 영혼을 배부르게 하는 신비가 있다. 상처가 있을 때에는 성스러운 치유로, 기쁠 때에는 풀꽃의 향취로, 낮은 곳에도 높은 곳에도 생명의 교향곡이 넘쳐 흐르는 곳, 여름 숲은 언젠가 찾아가야 할 우리 모두의 성소이다.
A mountain exploded once— Mount St. Helens tearing open the American sky, ash falling like gray snow upon forests, rivers, and homes.
The earth itself could no longer remain silent.
And once, Napoleon lifted a crown toward his own head, declaring himself emperor while Europe trembled beneath ambition.
Power always believes it can outlive time.
On another May 18, a tall sorrowful lawyer named Abraham Lincoln stepped quietly toward destiny, toward a divided nation already smelling of war.
Some men inherit crowns. Some inherit wounds.
And long before them, boats crossed cold waters carrying frightened loyalists toward the forests of Canada, searching simply for a place to survive history.
Meanwhile, Halley’s Comet passed overhead, a burning question moving through darkness.
People looked upward in fear, as though heaven itself were writing warnings in fire.
Yet among all the memories held by May 18, one wound still bleeds deeply inside the Korean soul.
Gwangju.
The city where students walked into the streets carrying only their voices.
Young faces lifted against martial law. Against fear. Against silence forced by rifles.
Mothers waited at windows. Fathers searched hospitals. Brothers disappeared between gunfire and smoke.
The streets filled with cries for democracy, and the military answered with bullets.
Blood touched the pavement where spring flowers should have fallen.
Official numbers counted the dead. But grief cannot be counted.
And still, the people did not entirely surrender.
Taxi drivers carried the wounded. Strangers shared rice and water. Citizens held one another beneath curfews and helicopters.
Even in terror, human compassion refused to die.
Perhaps this is why May 18 continues breathing through history.
Because volcanoes erupt. Empires rise. Governments silence voices. Comets pass through the night.
Yet ordinary people still stand for dignity.
Still light candles.
Still gather in public squares with trembling hands.
Still believe that freedom is worth suffering for.
And somewhere tonight, the souls of Gwangju walk quietly among us—
not asking for revenge, but remembrance.
Not demanding hatred, but courage.
For democracy is fragile like spring blossoms in hard wind.
And peace survives only when human beings refuse to forget one another.
When June comes, our Korean people remember a tragedy of history we can never forget.
This year marks forty‑five years since the Korean War entered its armistice. I myself never lived through the war, so I do not claim the right to speak as one who personally experienced the suffering of our nation on June 25, 1950. Yet I hope we can take time together to search for God’s hidden purpose within the pain and disaster our ancestors endured, and to learn the lesson that such a tragedy must never again be repeated in our generation or in the generations to come.
In particular, I believe it is vitally important to teach our second‑generation children—who are growing up as American citizens—the historical meaning of the Korean War. Even though the first and second generations grew up in different environments, when we share a consciousness of history that connects our people and preserves our identity, the generational gap narrows. Our children will also discover their identity as Korean Americans living in this land.
And when people, having grown up with good education and comfortable surroundings, achieve a measure of success yet forget their roots and the suffering of their ancestors, they inevitably drift toward a life of indulgence. Teaching our second‑generation children—who have never shed tears over the preciousness of family, the dignity of human life, or even the value of a single grain of rice—the history of our people is to give them the ability to cherish their future happiness with greater care.
The scholar Beringheim once said, “Let us know history correctly. If we know history correctly, we need no separate education in ethics or morality.” Indeed, living with historical consciousness leads a person toward a deeper and more ultimate dimension of life.
“One, two, three, four—little captain marching out. One, two, three, four—matching steps together. Hey, Red, come on out! Kim Il‑sung, come on out! One, two, three, four—we are the national army!”
This was the song my eldest daughter—then only four years old—sang as her “introduction performance” before relatives when we first immigrated to America. My sister‑in‑law, who had already been in the U.S. for more than ten years, burst into laughter hearing her new little niece sing every word of this children’s marching song without a single mistake. “You really are a true daughter of Korea!” she said, stroking the child’s head.
That little girl has now grown into a twenty‑two‑year‑old young woman. She has nearly forgotten the words to “Little Captain.” Sometimes I sing it in front of her, hoping that somewhere inside her grown‑up heart, the fragrance of our people’s suffering will not be forgotten.
I sometimes talk to my children about Korean history and current events. When we discuss what we hear in the news, I often find myself sharing not stories that make us proud, but stories that are embarrassing or difficult to understand. The children ask, “Why does the president have to go to prison? How can regional hatred be so severe? Politicians live on the people’s taxes—how can they do such things? How can companies dump waste into rivers so carelessly?”
At such moments I sometimes regret bringing it up, but afterward I realize it was the right thing to do.
For although my children are being educated in America and growing up as citizens here, they may one day have an opportunity to understand their parents’ homeland more deeply or even serve the Korean people in some way. When that time comes, I do not want them to be shocked or disappointed. It is better to reveal our flaws early and begin from there.
General Douglas MacArthur entered the Korean War in July 1950 with the hope that American soldiers would be home by Christmas. But the Korean War left one million dead, two million wounded, 700,000 widows and orphans, and ten million separated family members. After all this pain, the war settled into a long armistice that has now lasted forty‑five years.
St. Augustine warned humanity’s repeating sins by saying, “Do not think of past events as things that happened only in the past—remember them in the present.”
We must express gratitude and respect to the generation of our fathers and mothers who climbed the most tragic heights of history. Young men of that time sometimes became North Korean soldiers aiming rifles at the South, and sometimes South Korean soldiers aiming rifles at the North. In mountain caves, in attic spaces, in pigsties—wherever they could cling to life—they endured hunger, cold, fear, and despair, barely surviving by sharpening every sense of their bodies.
Neighbors who once drew water from the same village well could be “Reds” by night and ordinary South Koreans by day. People lived suspended between life and death.
Millions of refugees who lost everything in an instant cried out countless times, “God, please just spare our lives!” and pushed through the roar of war to reach the present day.
Now the entire Korean people must work together for peace. I believe God scattered us across the world through immigration to give us and our descendants a vision for peace. It is similar to how, after the war of AD 70, the Jewish people were scattered across the world yet clung to God’s Word and eventually rose as leaders among the nations.
This dream of world peace cannot depend solely on certain politicians. Every field must participate—businesspeople, politicians, writers, musicians, artists, journalists, clergy, students, professors, homemakers, laborers, and medical workers.
I hope that Korean immigrant communities around the world, while recognizing their diversity, will unite in their longing for national reconciliation and reunification. May the eyes of grandfathers, fathers, sons, and grandsons all look together toward peace.
Professor Maeng Yong‑gil, quoting Karl von Clausewitz’s On War in his article “War on the Korean Peninsula and the Providence of God” (Ministry and Theology, June 1994, p. 94), wrote:
War is aggressive.
War aims at victory.
War follows a teleological logic.
War inevitably uses violence.
War seeks to break the enemy’s spirit and drive them toward surrender.
Human history shows plainly how much fighting mankind has endured. Statistics say that over the past 5,600 years, an average of twenty‑six wars broke out every year. Dividing that period into 185 generations, only ten generations experienced sustained peace. Another statistic says that between 1945 and 1990, out of 2,340 weeks, only three weeks were free of war.
Historians say that Korea alone experienced about 930 wars during its 4,331‑year history (as of 1998)—a war every four to five years. And these were not wars we initiated, but invasions from outside powers. Even now we remain in an armistice, not true peace.
“My homeland, the Republic of Korea”—even speaking these words fills my heart with longing, and a mountain of yearning rises within me. The more difficult the homeland becomes, the more affection wells up, because it is the place where my life began. No one knows me better, and I know my homeland better than anyone else. It is a relationship that longs to embrace and weep together.
South Korea has endured the painful era of the IMF crisis. North Korea suffers famine so severe that children, reduced to skin and bone, lie motionless without even the strength to cry. In their faces, I see my own reflection more clearly.
About eight years ago, when visiting North Korea still raised suspicion of espionage, a pastor—now an American citizen—returned to his hometown of Pyongyang and met his older brother and relatives for the first time in forty years. He visited his father’s grave, weeping with a grief like a river.
He longed to know whether his father, an elder in the church, had remained faithful to Christ until the end. But under the oppressive ideology of the North, he could not ask his brother directly. So he asked instead about his father’s final years. His brother replied, “Whenever there was trouble or hardship in the family, Father would go out to the mountains or fields to meditate.”
The pastor understood what that meant. His father had clung to God without betraying Christ, surviving under communist oppression.
He also longed to know whether his brother’s family believed in Jesus, but the ever‑present government guide made it impossible to ask.
The next day, weakened by travel and food, the pastor lay down in a side room while the family ate. Suddenly the door opened quietly. His grand‑niece, a young woman with rough skin and a shy face, slipped in, knelt beside him, and whispered something into his ear.
It was a hymn—something he never imagined he would hear in that place:
“Jesus loves me, this I know, For the Bible tells me so. Little ones to Him belong, They are weak, but He is strong. Yes, Jesus loves me…”
Her hot tears fell onto his face as she sang. When she finished, she wiped her tears and fled the room.
The pastor rose, overwhelmed, and poured out a prayer of thanksgiving to God. The questions he had carried for decades were washed away like a stream after heavy rain.
When June comes, I remember the suffering of our people. The pain of separated families and the longing for peaceful reunification—our national hope—remain unresolved, left behind in the shadows of forty‑five years.
Dwight Moody once said, “Give your life to God. He can do more with it than you can.”
I am convinced that if all generations of believers dedicate their lives to this unfulfilled longing of our people and teach it to our descendants, the God who governs history will surely accomplish great things. Remembering the painful history of the past gives purpose to our present and guards our hearts from future complacency. It is, in a sense, a return to Eden.
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