My friend, Kim Hyung-Gi**

In the narrow alley of Manggmi‑dong, where evening settled softly upon old books, a quiet voice refused to disappear. Long before I met him— long before June in Daegu brought his presence close enough to change the temperature of my heart— he had already become a lamp in the winter of a nation.

History says the 1970s in Busan were a crucible— a city where democracy was still learning how to breathe. Research tells us that Middle Church, under Rev. Choi Sung‑mook, was a spiritual headquarters, and the book alley nearby a cultural artery where students, pastors, and weary dreamers gathered beneath the watchful eyes of the state.

But I know this story not only from archives. I know it because I lived on the second floor of that alley— a young 전도사, sleeping beside stacks of books, listening to footsteps on the stairs that could be students or soldiers.

And in that narrow space, Kim Hyung‑Gi held books as a farmer holds seed— trusting that what is planted in faithful hearts will one day rise as a harvest of justice.

He often said, “Books are small lamps. When winter covers a nation, even one lamp keeps hope alive.”

But darkness heard him first.

Heavy boots climbed the stairway. Voices accustomed to command filled the room.

“You gather students. You read forbidden books. You plant rebellion. Is this not treason?”

Silence lingered— the kind that trembles before courage speaks.

“What is treason?” he answered. “Is truth an enemy of the nation? Or does a nation betray itself when it fears its own people?”

The answer was followed by blows. Fear always speaks with clenched fists when it cannot answer truth.

History records three days of interrogation— walls without mercy, windows without light, Emergency Measure No. 9 casting its long shadow over a nation taught to whisper and hide its own conscience.

But my memory adds another layer: the lamps above Busan that refused to go out. Students gathered. Books opened. Ideas crossed from heart to heart. No prison could arrest the freedom of thought.

I saw it myself— the 양서읽기 모임 growing from quiet reading into weekly journeys to Masan Prison, where we visited Kim Dae‑jung. I watched as courage became contagious, as buses were stopped, as students were dragged away, as the spark of 부마항쟁 rose from the dust of our book‑lined room.

Kim Hyung‑Gi returned— not carrying resentment, but responsibility.

“Let us build a house for books,” he said. “A place where conscience may grow freely, where knowledge becomes bread, where neighbors learn together how to become citizens.”

So shelves rose quietly within Bosu‑dong Book Alley— not as monuments, but as living trees whose branches offered shelter to every seeker of truth.

Students came. Teachers came. Workers came. Pastors came. Poets came. Each carrying questions. Each departing with greater hope.

History moved again. Buses stopped. Streets filled. Hands joined hands. The voices of ordinary people became the heartbeat of democracy.

Many suffered. Many were imprisoned. Some gave everything.

Yet conscience had already awakened. And conscience awakens another conscience.

A just society is never born all at once. It begins inside one honest heart. It grows through one faithful life. It passes from generation to generation like a lamp carried carefully through the darkness.

And now— across the Pacific, decades later, after meeting him only once in June in Daegu— I find myself missing him as one misses a brother of the spirit, a companion in the long walk toward justice.

Even now, if you walk the quiet alley of Bosu‑dong, listen carefully. You may still hear the gentle turning of old pages. You may still feel the warm breath of those who believed that truth need not shout to change history.

For every book opened with courage, every conversation held with integrity, every conscience that awakens another— becomes one more light guiding humanity toward the beloved community God has always dreamed for the world.

-TaeHun Yoon, August 5, 2026 (Edited on 8/6/2026)

*Manggmi-dong – The Martial Law Command (Defense Security Command) Busan Branch — commonly known as “Sam-il Gong-sa, Three One Cooperation.”

**Kim Hyung‑Gi (1952– )

Rev. Kim Hyung‑Gi, an alumnus of the 80th class of the Presbyterian University and Theological Seminary (PUTS), has been appointed as the 7th Chairperson of the Committee for Truth Investigation and Restoration of Honor for the Busan–Masan Democratic Uprising, serving a two‑year term.

Kim’s journey into democracy and human rights began in the early 1970s, when he was a student at Seoul National University of Education. During that period, he took part in the funeral organized by Christian students after the self‑immolation of Cheonggyecheon laborer Jeon Tae‑il. Soon after, he became active in the college ministry of Saemunan Presbyterian Church, and from that point forward, he has lived his entire life as a pastor committed to democracy, human rights, and Christian faith.

After graduating from university, Kim was arrested in 1974 for involvement in the Mincheonghakryeon (National Democratic Youth and Student Federation) incident and for violating Emergency Measure No. 4. The Supreme Court sentenced him to 12 years in prison and 12 years of disqualification, and he served time as a political prisoner. He was released on a stay of execution and was fully pardoned and reinstated in 1983. Only in 2009, through a retrial, was he finally declared innocent—officially recognized as a contributor to Korea’s democratization movement.

Busan, the political home of former President Kim Young‑sam, was at that time a gathering place for many democracy activists. Kim worked as a clerk in the law office of attorney Kim Kwang‑il, who later served as Chief Presidential Secretary, and through that role he became deeply involved in the Busan democratization movement.

Within the Busan church community, Kim worked alongside prominent leaders such as the late Rev. Choi Sung‑mook of the Presbyterian Church in the Republic of Korea (PROK) and Rev. Cha Seon‑gak. Together, they spearheaded the founding of the Busan Yangseo Cooperative, integrating cooperative activism with community engagement. Their efforts received strong support from the local society and became an influential model of faith‑based civic participation.

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“True Music”

— With a Heart Longing for Peace

I stand upon the shore.

The sea roars. The wind moves. The moon waits. The sun gives. All of them draw one another through the quiet conversation of the universe.

Far beneath, the hidden earth trembles. A fault awakens. A mountain of water lifts itself with astonishing strength and rolls toward the coast.

But upon the sand it loosens. Its fury becomes gentleness. Its power becomes the soft touch of an infant’s skin.

A thought lingers in my consciousness, then scatters— falling into the depths of the unconscious.

So I wait for it, achingly. Someday, surely, it will return from the deep.

And so I wait, without promise, without guarantee— just wait.

Because you, like someone opening a feast, are always full of joy.

How mysterious the heart of power.

Earthquakes. Volcanoes. Typhoons. Tornadoes. Fire. Flood.

Nature also knows war. It breaks. It overturns. It scatters. It erases the proud architecture of human certainty.

And humanity— in its own blindness— creates wars of greed, of ego, of selfish politicians who forget the fragile breath of the people they claim to serve.

Yet after devastation comes silence. Stillness. A new beginning. Creation breathing again.

I have learned destruction is not final. The earth remembers how to become a garden again.

Ice melts. Mist rises. Rain falls. One drop returns to the sea. One leaf to the forest. One life to the Creator.

The infant becomes old. The old becomes childlike. The great circle never closes. It only widens.

Then I remember Erwin Schrödinger— his quiet thought:

“The total number of minds in the universe is one.”

Consciousness a single flame shining through every living being.

My heart recognizes the truth before my mind can explain it.

Then music arrives. Ravel. His Concerto in G.

Not notes, but light. Not performance, but revelation.

Yunchan Lim touches the keys as if remembering where beauty was first born.

Every note transparent. Every silence alive. Fire without violence. Tenderness without weakness. Sorrow without despair. Joy without possession.

Ravel paints with sound as Van Gogh painted with light.

Crystal becomes melody. Color becomes prayer. Silence becomes architecture.

The slow movement floats like moonlight on still water. The finale laughs with life.

And Yunchan— he does not conquer. He listens. He receives. He lets beauty pass through him.

Is this not the calling of every artist— not to possess beauty, but to witness it faithfully.

My soul opens through the five quiet gates of the senses.

I hear leaves speaking. Wind passing through grass. The hidden hymn inside flowing water.

I see light resting on ordinary stones. I feel the breathing of the universe within my own breathing.

Everything belongs.

The sea. The mountain. The politician who has forgotten compassion. The wave. The child. The elder. The painter. The writer. The musician. The saint. The scientist. The immigrant. The forgotten. The beloved.

One creation. One longing. One Light.

Perhaps the Creator has whispered this from the beginning— not through thunder, but through birds, through rivers, through tides, through music that enters where language cannot.

Come. Stand with me upon this shore.

Listen— to Ravel, to Yunchan, to thunder and lightning, to the rustling leaves, the breathing wind, the singing sea, the quiet stars, the human heart, and the infinite heart of God.

All beauty comes from one Source. All love returns to one Source. All minds are one.

And every true song is already the music of the cosmos.

TaeHun Yoon

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Vincent, in the Bright Ache of God

(for the 136th year of his passing)

My wife and I

came with open hearts

to your humble grave in Auvers—

a simple stone,

ivy climbing like a soft benediction,

silence holding your name

as gently as a wound.

We stood

in admiration

and grief—

because your colors

were never just colors.

They were longing,

they were loneliness,

they were prayers

you painted

to survive the ache

inside your chest.

Yellow—your hope

you could not hold.

Orange—your burning sorrow.

Stars—your grief

set trembling in the sky.

We felt

your missing love,

your depression,

your fierce attempt

to stay alive

by painting light

that kept slipping

from your hands.

After that visit,

my wife began painting in different way.

She rises at 5:30 each morning—

before the sun,

before the noise—

to paint her own prayer,

her own way

toward God.

Vincent,

you taught us

that suffering

can still burn with beauty,

that loneliness

can still be held

by the Creator,

that even a broken heart

can shine.

And so we honor you—

your naked soul,

your honest colors,

your courage

to create

from the ache.

We walk

toward your grave,

toward your light,

toward your God—

because you showed

that love,

even when missing,

can still become

a masterpiece.

— TaeHun Yoon, July 30, 2026

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True Love at the Brick Wall

(For Bishop Kenneth L. Carder)

A daughter opened
a cedar box,

and lifted
her father’s words
into the light.

Pages remembered.
Hope remembered.
The Spirit
still remembered.

The old sermon
rang again:

“Leave the shallow places.
Walk into the deeper truth.”

For God
is always found

among the forgotten,
among the wounded,
among those
who stand quietly
at the margins.

There,
love becomes justice.

There,
mercy becomes home.


Then came
another July.

A mountain morning.

A failing heart.

A road
through Haywood County.

An ICU

where tomorrow
struck

a brick wall.

Family gathered.

Silence prayed.

Fear
filled the room.


Then, softly,

bread arrived.

The cup arrived.

And David Lowes Watson
stood beside the bed,

offering
not explanations,

but Christ.

He prayed:

Put me to doing.

Put me to suffering.

Let me be full.

Let me be empty.

The heart resisted.

But grace remained.

The wall
did not disappear—

the soul
was changed.


Then came

a second calling.

Not one imagined,

but one received.

A new season
opened quietly,

where teaching
became shepherding,

and wisdom

became a gift

for generations.

The bishop

became

a companion,

a mentor,

a faithful friend

to all

who sought

the deeper way.


Then came

another wall.

Linda’s fading memory.

Love learning

how to remember

when memory

could not.

Again,

the Covenant Prayer

returned—

not as burden,

but as light.

Not demanding,

but sustaining.

Not ending hope,

but deepening it.

Love

became the journey.

Belonging

became the destination.


So let

the margins shift.

Let

the circle widen.

Let old sermons

become

living songs again.

For wherever

justice is loved,

wherever

compassion is shared,

wherever

the forgotten

are welcomed,

there

Christ still walks.

There

the Church

is born again.

There

every brick wall

becomes

another doorway

into grace.


— TaeHun Yoon
Knoxville, Tennessee
July 29, 2026

May be an image of text that says 'SHIFTING MARGINS From Fear and Exclusion Toward Love and Belonging TheCarderFamily: The Carder Family: Allen Edith, Allen,Edith,(BabyDennis. (Baby) Dennis, Edna, Edna,Kenneth, Kenneth, Jim Bishop Kenneth L. Carder'
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Grateful Heart

(For the Constitution Day of the Republic of Korea)

Today,

as I celebrate
my beloved wife’s
seventy-third birthday,

another gift
quietly enters my heart—

the President’s gratitude
offered
to the people.

The Constitution
turns another page
in the life
of the Republic.

Seventy-eight years ago,

on July 12, 1948,
the First Constituent Assembly
set apart
Constitution Day.

Its official proclamation
waited five more days—

until July 17,

the anniversary
of the founding of Joseon
by Yi Seong-gye
five hundred fifty-six years before.

A king’s commemorative day
became
the people’s day.

And the nation
breathed a promise
that has never grown old:

The sovereignty
of the Republic of Korea
belongs to the people.

All authority
comes from them.

Those words
have never lived
only upon paper.

They have lived
within ordinary citizens—

women and men,

who raised children,

planted rice,

taught classrooms,

healed strangers,

built bridges,

wept for neighbors,

and refused
to surrender hope.

History remembers

its presidents,

its generals,

its victories,

its defeats.

Yet history itself
is carried
by quieter hands.

Last December,

when the darkness
of martial law
once again
knocked upon
the doors
of democracy,

many wondered

whether freedom
could still endure.

The answer
did not rise
from power.

It rose
from the people.

From young people
keeping watch
through the frozen night.

From citizens
sharing
a single silver blanket
upon the cold asphalt.

From farmers,

workers,

students,

parents,

grandparents—

from thousands
whose names
may never appear
in history books,

yet whose courage
became
history itself.

They did not gather
to conquer enemies.

They gathered
to protect
one another.

Their light
was greater
than candles.

Greater
than the glow
of countless phones.

It was
the quiet light
of conscience—

the light
no winter
can extinguish,

the light
that reminds a nation

democracy
belongs
to all.

And so

democracy prevailed.

Not because
one side
defeated another,

but because
the people
refused
to let fear
defeat hope.

The victory

was not
over fellow citizens.

It was
over despair.

Over silence.

Over the temptation
to believe
that one voice
could replace
the voices
of millions.

For this,

ordinary people
bow
with profound gratitude.

No government
creates
such courage.

It receives it

as a sacred trust.

May every
third day
of December

be remembered,

not first
as a day
of danger,

but as the day

democracy
remembered
its own heartbeat.

May the stories
of those winter nights

be gathered
with care.

May every photograph,

every footprint,

every silent prayer,

every outstretched hand

be preserved,

so that children
yet unborn

may know

peace
is never
the absence
of conflict.

Peace

is the courage
to choose
one another.

Democracy

does not endure
through constitutions
alone.

It endures

when neighbors
become companions,

when differences
become dialogue,

when justice
walks beside mercy,

when truth
is loved
more than power,

and when freedom
is passed

from heart
to heart

like a living flame.

Today,

children dream
of a Korea

where victory
belongs

not to politics,

but to humanity;

where hope
becomes
our common language;

where peace
is stronger
than fear;

where every child
awakens
beneath a sky

unshadowed
by hatred;

and where the Republic,

confident
in its democracy,

extends its hands

not only
to its own people,

but
to the world.

To every citizen

who stood
through the long winter—

thank you.

The Republic
continues

because
you walked beside it.

Hope
continues

because
you believed.

Peace
draws nearer

because
you chose
the light.

— TaeHun Yoon, July 17, 2026

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“Dandelion”

Today
I complete my seventy-seventh year
upon this generous earth,

and I receive the day
as one receives morning light—

without deserving it,
yet full of gratitude.

Yet while I rejoiced,

another birthday
was unfolding beyond my sight.

Somewhere near Vladivostok,

an old Korean family
gathered wild dandelions,

not to celebrate life
but to preserve it.

After seventy years of exile
in Uzbekistan,

they had returned,

only to discover
that home itself
had become a stranger.

Others remained
in Central Asia,

while descendants of those sent

long ago
to the sugarcane fields

of Mexico
and Cuba

still carried Korea

as an invisible homeland

flowering within the heart.

I salute them all!

For every diaspora

knows what the dandelion knows.

Its root descends
into darkness

without complaint.

Its countless seeds

surrender themselves

to the free winds of heaven.

Its leaves heal

without boasting.

It asks neither fame
nor applause,

only another spring

in which to bloom

wherever it has fallen.

So let me also

be a dandelion.

Not seeking greatness,

but faithfulness;

but rootedness;

but the quiet grace

of giving life

wherever the Creator

has scattered me.

Water finds

the lowest place

and becomes the sea.

Nature is complete

simply by being itself.

So perhaps life,

too,

is simplest—

most perfect

in each passing moment:

the meal shared

with one’s beloved,

the child’s song

across the ocean,

the brother’s laughter,

the blessing of friends,

the ordinary day

received

with a little hand wave

and moments of smiling.

This is my birthday.

This is everyone’s birthday.

The birthday

of every exile

and every pilgrim,

every forgotten soul

and every hopeful child,

every wandering seed

carried across history

by unseen winds.

O Creator,

thank You

for these seventy-seven years.

Let me live

and die

as one small dandelion:

deeply rooted,

freely scattered,

quietly healing,

always turning my face

toward

Your everlasting Light.

— TaeHun Yoon, July 7, 2026 (Revised on 7/8/2026)

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“Meeting After a Quarter Century Passed”

This afternoon,

the children

of the mockingbirds

gathered

on the backyard fence,

speaking

all at once,

as though they knew

someone precious

had come home.

Two little puppies

rested

upon the grass,

their breathing

slower

than the summer wind.

The weather forecaster

spoke

of possible floods.

He did not know

one had already begun

within my heart.

After twenty-five years,

Rev. Tim Riss

sat across the table

from me.

Between Newburgh

and Knoxville,

between the North

and the South,

between yesterday

and today,

there had never been

such a long road.

Yet friendship

remembered the way

without a map.

We spoke

until lunch

forgot itself.

Our words

walked

into valleys

where younger pastors

still waited,

where conference rooms

were filled

with hope

and uncertainty,

where churches

were never

buildings alone,

but hearts

learning

to become

the Body of Christ.

Tim carried

the weight

of bishops,

districts,

pastors,

and congregations.

I carried

the prayers

of local churches,

hospital rooms,

and veterans

whose silence

often preached

better

than sermons.

Different assignments.

The same Shepherd.

He thinks

with remarkable clarity,

moving naturally

between Latin

and Korean,

his eyes

clear

with transparency.

I feel

before

I understand.

His voice

is a quiet stream,

flowing

in wisdom.

Mine,

a hillside waterfall.

Yet God,

who delights

in harmony

more than sameness,

once called us

to stand together,

caring

for those

who were answering

their call

to ordained ministry.

There

we learned

that every candidate

was more

than a file,

every elder,

every deacon,

more

than a title,

every life

another page

of God’s

unfinished Gospel.

Looking at him,

I smiled.

The rounded face.

The shining head.

The years

had become

brothers

before we did.

“My pastor

in spirit,”

I said.

“My brother

in spirit,”

he replied.

No bishop

could have ordained

a deeper bond.

Now

he journeys

north again,

through Asheville,

toward home.

I remain

beneath

the Tennessee sky,

already

missing him.

Perhaps

the mockingbirds

will greet him

when he reaches

Newburgh.

Perhaps

the Easter lilies

will carry

his quiet voice

into my garden

next spring.

Perhaps

this is how

God teaches us

that distance

is only geography,

never love.

Our strength

grows lighter.

Our steps

become slower.

But gratitude

ripens

like late-summer fruit,

sweetest

when the branches

begin

to bend.

The North

and the South

are no longer

directions.

They have become

two chambers

of one

grateful heart.

He travels

toward tomorrow.

I travel

through remembrance.

Both of us

are walking

the same road—

toward

the eternal home

already growing

within us.

This evening,

the mockingbirds

still sing.

The puppies

still sleep.

The rain

may yet come.

But another flood

has already

blessed the earth—

the overflowing grace

of seeing

a beloved brother

again.

And today,

I am

among the happiest

of God’s pilgrims.

— TaeHun Yoon

July 21, 2026

Tim’s wife: Genie Abrams, is the author of few novels, a former journalist and public-relations director for a variety of local, statewide and national nonprofits. She served a term on Newburgh, NY, city council member but is out on parole, and was the Poet Laureate of Newburgh from 2022-2024. She published her poetry in “Pretty Nearly All Natural.”

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“Living in the Well”

—while in conversation with Rev. Tim Riss

There are those

who spend a lifetime

living inside a well.

The sky above them

is neither false

nor complete.

It is simply

the measure

their eyes have learned.

To know

the boundary of one’s vision

is already

the beginning of wisdom.

The tragedy

is not that we see too little,

but that we mistake

our little

for the whole.

We give

a single name

to a field of wildflowers,

yet each blossom

receives the morning differently,

each petal

remembers another rain,

each fragrance

carries an unrepeatable hymn.

We say,

“These are leaves,”

while every leaf

writes its own scripture

with light,

wind,

and time.

Who, then,

truly lives

inside the well?

The one enclosed by stone?

Or the one

who has traveled the world

yet believes

he has seen enough?

Both may stand

beneath the same heaven,

seeing only

what certainty permits.

I have learned

that peace does not begin

when one culture

judges another,

nor when one tradition

claims the higher ground.

Peace begins

when we hear

the violin

welcoming the bamboo flute,

when ink

bows before watercolor,

when mountains

share their silence

with the sea.

Nature has never argued

about superiority.

The forest

lets oak,

pine,

maple,

and wild grass

drink

from the same rain.

Beauty

does not erase difference.

It gathers differences

into harmony.

Perhaps

the Creator hid truth

like light

passing through stained glass—

one sun,

many colors,

none sufficient

without the others.

So I pray

not to escape the well,

nor to condemn it,

but to keep enlarging

the circle of wonder

until every flower,

every culture,

every human face,

becomes another window

through which

the infinite beauty of God

quietly enters.

— TaeHun Yoon

July 21, 2026

P.S. At one point, we reflected on the striking contrast between Donald Trump and St. Bernard — a vivid pairing of pride set against humility

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“Peace with Justice”

Peace

is not the silence

left behind

by exhausted armies.

Peace

is justice

learning to breathe

through human hands.

It is the widow

who no longer fears

the night.

It is the child

who falls asleep

without listening

for sirens.

It is the stranger

welcomed

before becoming

a refugee.

Every budget

is a confession.

It tells us

what we worship,

what we fear,

and whose future

we are willing

to purchase.

The world

spends its treasure

for stronger weapons,

while heaven asks

whether we have learned

to strengthen

the brokenhearted.

No nation

can secure itself forever

if justice

has collapsed

within its own gates.

The Strait of Hormuz

holds

the world’s attention.

Markets tremble.

Ships hesitate.

Yet history

has never been healed

by the movement

of warships.

The greater voyage

is the one

from suspicion

to trust,

from revenge

to reconciliation.

Gaza

still counts

its mornings

with tears.

The West Bank

waits

beneath the weight

of uncertainty.

Lebanon

remembers explosions

long after

the smoke

has vanished.

Every ruined home

asks

the same question:

Who will rebuild

the human heart

before rebuilding

the stones?

The Korean Peninsula

still carries

an unfinished sentence.

Seventy-three years

have passed

since the guns

fell mostly silent,

yet peace

remains unsigned

in the conscience

of the world.

An armistice

is only

a pause.

Peace requires

imagination

greater than fear,

and courage

greater than memory.

Soon

August returns,

bringing

Hiroshima

and Nagasaki—

not as history alone,

but as prophets

whose shadows

still stretch

across

every generation.

The mushroom cloud

never belonged

to one nation.

Its warning

belongs

to all humanity.

Weapons

cross borders

with astonishing ease.

Hope

still waits

for a passport.

How strange

that death

travels first,

while mercy

must stand

in line.

Yet

I have seen

flowers

breaking through

cracked pavement,

neighbors

sharing bread

across old divisions,

former enemies

learning

each other’s names,

church bells

ringing louder

than distant artillery.

These, too,

are signs.

Not spectacular.

Not celebrated

on the evening news.

But they are

the quiet architecture

of God’s kingdom.

The Church

must never

become comfortable

inside silence.

Its calling

is older

than every empire—

to stand

where suffering

has been forgotten,

to speak

before fear

writes another law,

to kneel

before God

so that no one

must kneel

before violence.

Justice

without peace

becomes

another struggle

for power.

Peace

without justice

becomes

another name

for surrender.

God calls us

to hold them together,

as rivers

meet the sea,

as mercy

embraces truth,

as Christ

stretches out

both wounded hands

to gather

a broken world

into

one beloved

human family.

TaeHun Yoon
July 24, 2026

(After reading “The Peace with Justice Portfolio, July 2026,” by Colleen Moore, Director of Peace with Justice, General Board of Church and Society, The United Methodist Church.)

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For WanHee’s 73rd Birthday

Seventy-three years—

and still
you teach the morning
how to bloom.

Your hands
have painted love
into our home,

your heart
has turned ordinary days
into grace.

Each day I give thanks to God.

Long before we met,
He prepared someone
so beautiful,
so kind,
so gracious,
and so lovely
to walk beside me.

In you,
God has given me
a life of comfort,
of blessing,
and of quiet happiness.

For this,
my heart overflows
with gratitude—
every single day.

Thank you
for walking beside me
through every season,
sharing every joy,
and carrying every burden
with love.

May God’s light
continue to shine upon you,

and may your life
keep flowering
with joy,
peace,
gentleness,
and quiet beauty.

Happy 73rd Birthday,
my beloved.

With all my love,

TaeHun, July 17, 2026

https://www.facebook.com/wanhee.yoon

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