In the closet of my life are many hats—blessings gathered through the unusual life of being a pastor’s wife. For decades I cherished one particular hat, wearing it with pride. But one day, when I was forced to take off the hat I loved most, I found myself sinking into confusion and despair.
Yet the Creator of all things—the Master Designer of my life—had already decided to reshape me from the inside out. He redesigned, refitted, and restitched my life, clothing me with the garment called pastor’s wife.
An immigrant church’s pastor’s wife needs many hats: driver, babysitter, cleaner, receptionist, secretary, counselor, Bible teacher, cook, radio evangelist… But I did not understand why I had to wear so many. “God, I cannot take off my own hat! I don’t want this! Please let me live my life my own way!” For nearly fifteen years, this was my cry. But the Master Designer patiently waited as I wandered through confusion, despair, and inner conflict.
– Escape –
Though I was born into a Christian home, even as an adult I treated faith not as a core calling but as an optional subject. In that state, I met a seminary student whose inner beauty, vision for the world, and noble character—rare among men—captivated me. I married him without the slightest understanding of what kind of life he would live, or how my own life would be transformed. I was naïve.
For several years after marriage, I lived a disguised life, trying to be someone everyone would welcome. I soon realized that church members’ expectations of a pastor’s wife were impossibly high: gentle in demeanor, talented in every area, and spiritually comparable to the pastor himself. But I knew nothing about church work. On Sundays I wore mini-skirts and outfits more suited for Myeongdong in Seoul, drawing the disapproving glances of elderly churchwomen. And the expectation that I attend early-morning prayer, all-night prayer, and live a holy, exemplary life was unbearable.
At first I thought, Why should it matter what I wear or do? Why must I live differently just because I’m a pastor’s wife? But as time passed, life itself became exhausting. Faith felt like an iron chain binding my soul and body so tightly I could hardly breathe.
I grew resentful that I could not freely enjoy the world like others. Depression crept in. My worldly dreams and ambitions mocked me: the glamorous fantasy of becoming “Yoon Wan‑Hee, the world’s greatest fashion designer.” My soul grew sick and weary.
Whenever I prayed, I cried—not out of gratitude for God’s grace, but out of resentment. “God, it’s unfair! I didn’t choose this life!” Though I was a pastor’s wife, spiritually I was fragile, passive, and dependent—first on my mother’s faith, then on my husband’s. I believed that simply holding onto my husband’s coattails would earn me a first‑class seat to heaven.
– Infancy –
On December 2, 1980, our family immigrated to America with our three‑year‑old daughter. My husband hoped to continue his theological studies; I secretly dreamed of becoming a world‑famous fashion designer.
When he entered Drew Theological Seminary, I naturally had to support him—doing hand‑sewing at a dry cleaner, washing dishes in a nursing home, cleaning, working, raising our second child. I didn’t feel tired; I believed that once his studies were finished, my time would come.
After he graduated and was ordained in the New York Conference, he received his first appointment to an American Methodist church in Coxsackie, upstate New York. We had been in America only three years; I barely spoke English, and there were no Koreans anywhere. For a city girl, those three years felt like exile. I couldn’t understand the English sermons, couldn’t connect with people, and felt trapped in a glass box. I could hardly breathe.
But in that loneliness, God gave me a friend—writing. Writing opened an inner world for me. The short story and children’s tale I wrote for the first time in my life were selected in a newspaper’s New Year’s literary contest. Looking back, I see that God was preparing to use even this foolish, wandering heart.
My husband also felt spiritually stifled and suggested we begin early‑morning prayer. For six months we knelt on the wooden floor before dawn, praying. Then one morning, God sent Frank Hoffman, a Jewish man who had converted to Christianity. He said the Holy Spirit had urged him to join us as he passed the church each morning.
The next week, a young man named Neil Irwin came out of curiosity—and soon joined us daily. Prayer took root. Word spread to seven churches in the town—Catholic, Reformed, Pentecostal, Congregational, Presbyterian, African Methodist—and soon more than forty Americans gathered every morning to pray and sing. Denominational walls fell, and so did the invisible walls of language and culture.
The power of early‑morning prayer was astonishing. Lives were reordered, churches revived, and people said a spiritual awakening like the one a century earlier was happening again. Frank became a lay minister; Neil, once a fourth‑grade dropout, earned his GED, graduated college, entered seminary, and is now a pastor leading a thriving church. I witnessed God working beyond race and culture.
– Childhood –
Years later, my husband was appointed to an American church in Queens. Soon after, he felt called to start a Korean congregation inside the church for my newly arrived family. “A church plant? Why? Isn’t one church enough?” I strongly opposed it, but he insisted.
I had once pitied pastor’s wives in immigrant churches, thinking their lives looked miserable. Now I was carrying a rice cooker to church every Sunday just like them. I was building a business, pursuing my dreams, and suddenly my life felt like it was collapsing.
Our “Korean church” consisted of my mother, my sister, and the two of us. On Sundays, watching my husband preach passionately to three people as if to a thousand made me resent him deeply. And the endless services—early‑morning prayer, Wednesday service, Bible study, English service, Korean service—left me exhausted and despairing. What about my dreams? My plans? My life? I felt cheated, trapped, and hopeless.
At first, I was relieved that no one came to the church. I thought, Eventually he’ll get tired and give up. But slowly, compassion grew in me. A church without members—how pitiful we must look. Yet even after six months, not a single person came.
At home, conflict grew. I had to help with the homeless ministry and thrift shop at the American church, while juggling work and endless services. Nothing brought joy. I felt foolish sacrificing my youth for others. “God, this is unfair! My husband vowed to serve You—not me! Why must I suffer too?” My depression deepened.
– Adolescence (A Change of Regime) –
One evening, a Catholic youth leader came unexpectedly to our home. My heart sank. He spoke with my husband about our daughter. She was thirteen, and we had noticed she was losing interest in school. But we never imagined what he told us: “I feel like dying these days… and the Methodist pastor’s daughter next door is trying to kill herself too.”
I was shocked. When I found her, her wrists were covered with deep cuts. She sobbed, “Ever since we moved here, you and Dad never spend time with us. You’re always fighting. I don’t want to live.”
God used my child to show me myself—just as He used foreign oppression to bring Israel back to Him. No matter how good life seems, no parent can bear losing a child.
I realized it was all my fault. My husband walked the path of God’s calling, but I kept searching for another road. Recognizing one’s sinfulness before God is a great grace. I saw that I was unfit as a mother, immature as a wife, and unworthy of the title “pastor’s wife.” My constant wish to die was a grave sin.
Psalm 51 became my day‑and‑night cry: “Have mercy on me, O God… Wash me, and I shall be whiter than snow.”
One dawn, as I prayed, the hymn “I Know That My Redeemer Lives” filled my soul. The second verse— “To sanctify me wholly, His purpose will be done”— gripped me completely. Ah, this is it. He called me to make me holy. A veil lifted from my soul, and new life entered.
I realized how foolish I had been to believe material comfort could bring peace. Christ Himself came to me—no longer an idea or a picture, but the living Lord—clothing me with His own garment, touching my weary back with His nail‑scarred hands, wearing a crown of thorns as He embraced my tears, fatigue, complaints, loneliness, and inadequacy. “Jesus, Son of God, have mercy on me.” I saw in His eyes the same compassion He showed the woman at the well. And I laid down my cherished hat before Him.
I felt deep sorrow for my husband, who had prayed so earnestly for me. His ministry finally felt precious. Repentance is a change of regime—the overthrow of sin’s rule. I resolved not to become the pastor’s wife people expected, but the daughter of God He had saved.
That very Sunday, three women walked into our church—our first members after six months. Their faces looked like the face of God to me. One soul became more precious than the whole world.
– Youth (Founding the Korean‑American Women’s Mission)
A few weeks later, those women brought others—women from broken bicultural marriages, women suffering from mental illness, abuse, and hardship. Their cries pierced my soul. In August 1990, ten of us founded the Korean‑American Women’s Mission.
Through it, God worked powerfully—connecting hurting families, visiting AIDS patients, women in psychiatric wards, and Korean youth in prison. We delivered “baskets of love” and prayed for restoration.
One unforgettable case was Mrs. Kim, whose Haitian husband practiced Voodoo. He slept with “spirit women,” refused marital life, and their marriage was collapsing. But he came to Christ. We removed every charm and idol from their home and car. I will never forget how this giant of a man trembled in fear as we tore down the objects that had enslaved him.
– Adulthood –
After serving seven years in the American church in Queens and planting a Korean congregation there, we were reassigned to Lawrence Korean Church. When we arrived, we faced two major prayer burdens. First, many members were spiritually wounded and discouraged. Second, because the American congregation sharing the building was rapidly growing, the Korean church was being asked to leave. Except for Sunday worship and Wednesday service, we had almost no access to the building and could not carry out any meaningful ministry for the Korean community.
My husband and I prayed with two petitions before God. First, if God desired for us to build a sanctuary, we would move forward in faith. Second, if God wanted the funds set aside for building to be used instead for 21st‑century mission work, then He would provide us with a sanctuary we could use.
Waiting for God’s answer was a long and difficult season. We felt like eagles trapped in a cage, unable to fly. The district superintendent helped us search for possible locations, but nothing was suitable. Every dawn we prayed for a sanctuary, and afterward we drove around looking at church buildings, synagogues, and warehouses—yet nothing opened. After morning prayer, we would visit nearby churches, large and small, and envy them deeply. In the empty parking lots of churches we loved, we knelt and cried out:
“Lord, we have nowhere to go! Either allow us to use this sanctuary, or give us the means to build one. Please help us!”
We felt pitiful. Through this, we came to understand—deeply and painfully—the longing Israel had for the temple.
My husband set aside three days each month for fasting prayer, entrusting our two petitions entirely to God’s leading. On Sundays, when he left for the retreat center with only a sleeping bag, water, and a few belongings, my heart ached. After he left, I would kneel in the empty room and cry out:
“God, why must we go through this?”
Two years passed with no sign of a building project and no suitable place to move. It was a time of complete silence. Then one Wednesday evening, my husband announced that to resolve the sanctuary issue, he would begin a 40‑day fast in the fall.
“Forty days of fasting?” My heart dropped. A terrifying fear of death swept over me. If we stay in this church, we may not survive. I felt utterly alone. Is my husband abandoning his wife and children for God’s work? People die during 40‑day fasts—what will happen to us if he dies?
On the way home after service, I could not speak a single word. As soon as we arrived at the parsonage, I went to the basement and wept uncontrollably:
“God, I am so lonely! I am so afraid! My heart hurts!”
For four hours I cried—more deeply than ever before in my life. I learned that a person can indeed weep that long in anguish. My husband came down to comfort me, but seeing my state, he simply prayed silently beside me for a long time and then quietly stepped away.
It was the first time in my life that I stood alone before God—without leaning on my mother’s prayers, my husband’s comfort, or the encouragement of my children. It was a night of utter loneliness and brokenness. Yet as I poured out my pain, fear, and despair before God, the Holy Spirit lifted my discouraged soul little by little, filling me with comfort and peace.
“Do not let your hearts be troubled. Believe in God; believe also in Me.” (John 14:1)
The next morning, with swollen eyes, I was cleaning the house—sweeping away the clutter of my heart—when the phone rang. The caller introduced himself as Pastor Searfoss, the senior pastor of St. Mark’s Church, saying he wished to meet with my husband.
“St. Mark’s Church?” I could hardly believe my ears. For sixteen years, our church had repeatedly asked to share their building and had been rejected twice. Even our most recent request had gone unanswered for over a year, and we had given up hope. After a night of storm‑tossed anguish, it felt like the radiant sun was rising. Hope flooded my heart through that single phone call.
From that moment until the pastors met, I fasted and prayed earnestly that nothing would hinder God’s work.
On February 7, 1996, at 10 a.m., the two pastors met and agreed to pursue a joint Easter service as the first step toward shared use of the building. But we knew the real challenge lay ahead: St. Mark’s leadership meetings, congregational votes, committees, and boards. For a long‑established, upper‑middle‑class white congregation, welcoming a Korean church was no small decision.
Our entire congregation entered forty days of prayer and fasting. Our prayers for a sanctuary were desperate and sincere.
In the end, by God’s gracious power, everything worked together for good. Not a single member was lost, and our church moved into the new sanctuary. It felt like an eagle bursting through an open door into the sky.
On April 7, 1996, our two churches held a joint Easter service and became one body in Christ. The St. Mark’s members, whom we had feared might not accept us, opened their beautiful Norman‑Gothic sanctuary to us with genuine love. I know how difficult and sacrificial their decision was. They offered us the building their ancestors had cherished—not with hesitation, but with Christ’s perfect love.
Strengthened by their love, our church moved forward with great vision for the 21st century, and God added daily blessings of growth.
“For the Lamb at the center of the throne will be their shepherd; He will lead them to springs of living water, and God will wipe every tear from their eyes.” (Revelation 7:17)
Looking back now, I must confess how stubborn and foolish I was. Yet God, in His grace, enabled me to fulfill the calling of a pastor’s wife to the end. He blessed our family with three children who walk with us in ministry. Our eldest daughter, now a college sophomore, received her calling at fifteen and hopes to become a missionary. She volunteers as a counselor at a suicide‑prevention center for teens.
Today, I am proud and joyful to be a pastor’s wife. God called an unworthy sinner and never abandoned me, even in my wandering. I continue to serve as the general secretary of the Korean‑American Women’s Mission, founded in 1990, and I support my husband’s ministry. For three years I wrote a devotional column, “Letters from the Parsonage,” for New York KCBN Christian Radio, and now I host a program called “In the Forest Where the Window Opens” on Radio Korea. I also help publish our church newsletter and Lenten devotional booklets.
Seeing how God has accomplished all things—“I can do all things through Him who gives me strength”—I know these works are entirely His.
My vision now is to continue recording the “Acts of the Spirit” written through the lives of our congregation, leaving a testimony for future generations.
I offer my love to my mother, my parents‑in‑law, and my husband—my spiritual leader and teacher—who prayed for me with tears. And I thank the church members who continue to support this still‑imperfect pastor’s wife with love and prayer.
My former dreams were empty worldly things, but God led me into the holy work of redesigning human lives. Today, as I look at the many hats in the closet of my life, I boldly testify that God desires to give such gifts to anyone.
I now love and cherish the “pastor’s wife’s hat” that God, the Master Designer of my life, crafted with His own hands. And I humbly add my confession to Paul’s:
“Not that I have already obtained all this, or have already arrived at my goal, but I press on to take hold of that for which Christ Jesus took hold of me.” (Philippians 3:12) Amen.
— WanHee Yoon, March 12, 1997










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