This year, with our eldest child entering college, we realized that opportunities for the whole family to travel together might become rare. So we planned a trip, visiting various places and returning with renewed love among us and a refreshing of both body and spirit. Immersed among strangers, in unfamiliar surroundings and dialects, encountering the unique features of each region, we found that nature always greeted us anew—inviting us into quiet meditation, which was a joy in itself. With a notebook in hand, we carefully mapped out our destinations and mileage, setting off with hopeful anticipation.
But truthfully, travel wasn’t always pleasant or easy. Five people sharing a car for ten hours at a time, and spending every moment together, was no small feat. When our youngest hesitated to give up space for his older sisters, complaints would arise, and everyone had to weigh in. Fatigue and heat sometimes made us overly sensitive to one another. Moving from one destination to another meant gathering our belongings, and our slowest child often lagged behind, requiring the rest of us to learn patience. Mealtimes brought their own challenges—balancing personal tastes with time and budget constraints meant we had to uphold the principle of mutual concession. Even among family, small discomforts could lead to irritability. It reminded us that caring for others—especially strangers—is impossible without God’s grace and love intervening.
Though we sometimes had to rely on hotels and restaurants, the greatest joy came from entering nature: pitching tents, cooking rice on a burner, breathing in fresh mountain air, dipping our feet in the stream, and listening to birdsong. After a long drive, we arrived at a campsite in the Smoky Mountains—about 600 miles from New York—nestled in North Carolina’s national park, near the Cherokee Indian Reservation, a place bustling with visitors year-round.
We unloaded our tent and quickly set it up with the children. Inflating vinyl cushions, we transformed a lonely picnic table on a quiet lawn into a lively gathering spot. Nature’s beauty seemed to come alive when people arrived. Yet just as quickly, the signs of human presence could vanish—leaving behind only the blackened remnants of a campfire.
Each day’s warmth faded quickly, and we had to pack up again and move on. There was no time to postpone yesterday’s love until tomorrow. Tomorrow held its own love and vitality, and yesterday’s leftovers couldn’t be repacked. The complaints and frustrations we failed to contain left a bitter trace, like urban pollution lingering in the soul.
One deaconess had gifted us a jar of water kimchi before we left. We kept it chilled in an icebox and enjoyed it at every meal. “Our God is so thoughtful!” we exclaimed as we ate. Then our second child said, “Mom, the smell of kimchi makes me feel peaceful. No matter how unfamiliar the place, if I smell kimchi, it feels like home.” Everyone agreed. Though our children were born and raised here, through the unique scent and culture of Korea, they were planting their roots in this land. And as we breathed in the sacred fragrance of God’s creation, we were reminded that our true roots are planted in Him—and peace flooded our hearts.
Leaving the parsonage for a while, we missed our congregation and neighbors deeply. That longing reminded us how strong the bonds of love truly are. Sometimes we felt sorrow when our love didn’t reach others. Kneeling at the altar, praying for each member’s needs with tears, we found comfort in knowing those prayers were not in vain. The Lord reminded us that our presence lives within our congregation. One early morning, weary in a strange place, the Lord awakened my soul and spoke clearly: “When a person is full of themselves, God’s power cannot work.”
Returning to the parsonage, opening its long-closed doors brought joy and relief. As I tucked our travel notebook onto a shelf, I was reminded that travel cannot last forever. Just as we must eventually return home, so too must we one day journey to our eternal homeland. Travel teaches us how precious and valuable our everyday place truly is.
by Wanhee Yoon, July 24, 1995














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