A pastor once endured great hardship while completing his Doctor of Ministry degree in the United States. During his years of study, his wife supported him tirelessly, and the entire family shared the financial strain and difficulties. At last, he graduated. All the burdens of the past seemed to vanish in the joy of receiving his degree.
He was then assigned to a church. With the training he had received over ten years of theological study, he poured his whole heart into ministry. But a year and a half later, he collapsed from overwork. At the hospital, he was diagnosed with cirrhosis of the liver. It was devastating—almost unreal. The sacrifices and suffering of his family seemed to evaporate like mist. Even his burning desire to preach God’s Word freely—after all those years of effort—meant nothing in the face of failing health. The thought that his wife’s labor, patience, and prayers might all come to nothing felt unbearably cruel. But what could he do? He submitted his resignation. Even the doctor’s advice—that he must rest or risk losing his life—felt bitter.
He had just begun to connect deeply with his congregation. The grand visions he had hoped to pursue with them now felt like passing wind. Memories of past hardships flashed before him: carrying loads at Seoul Station to pay for seminary tuition, his mother’s lifelong tears and prayers, the long nights of study in America with his wife working all day and still smiling proudly at him. All of it felt like a dream now. And the future seemed to hold no hope.
The parsonage grew heavy with silence. His wife avoided even meeting his eyes, afraid he might see the tears she was trying to hide. Then one day, an elderly deaconess quietly came to visit. She sat before the pastor and his wife, her voice small and trembling, and said:
“Pastor… please give us a chance. Give us the chance to love you. Please don’t leave us. We will pray with you.”
In that moment, a new light broke into the pastor’s heart. He felt as though he could die tomorrow without regret. Fear melted away, replaced by courage—an assurance that he could overcome his illness. Through the loving exhortation of his congregation, he sensed that God would give him strength to endure this trial.
With the support of the church’s prayers, he took a six‑month sabbatical in a place with clean air and rest. His health returned, and he resumed ministry—this time serving faithfully without overexertion.
Pastors often exhort their congregations through sermons, and pastoral ministry itself is a lifelong act of exhorting God’s people. Yet pastors, too, have moments when they desperately need the loving encouragement of their flock. As public figures, they face personal health struggles, spiritual battles, and church-related crises that others may never see.
At a gathering of pastors’ wives, one testimony left a deep impression on me. One Sunday, after a difficult staff meeting, her husband came home exhausted and said, “Honey… are you going to push me too?” His face was filled with sorrow and despair. Later, she found him asleep on the floor beside the bed, curled up in utter fatigue. As she shared this through tears, every pastor’s wife in the room wept—because they had all seen their husbands in similar moments.
A wife’s comfort has its limits. But when praying church members say, “Pastor, please be strong. We are with you. We are praying for you,” that loving exhortation gives pastors courage, fresh vision, and strength to rise again.
“Please give us the chance to love you.” Those bold, life-giving words reopened the pastor’s vision for ministry and became a foundation for renewing both the church and his personal faith. In a moment when both his life and the church were on the brink of crisis, the deaconess’s heartfelt exhortation became an unforgettable lesson for me.
I realized how often I seek opportunities to be loved, yet how much more I need the courage to offer love. And the prayer of St. Francis echoed deeply in my heart:
“Lord, make me an instrument of Your love.”
— Wanhee Yoon, 6/16/1997










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