올해 한국 여행(2026. 6. 1~30.)은 내 마음에 깊은 감동과 기쁨, 그리고 치유를 안겨 주었고, 오랫동안 품고 살아온 그리움을 따뜻하게 어루만져 주었습니다. 그러나 뜻밖의 순간마다 끝없이 눈물을 흘리기도 했습니다.
또한 병마와 싸우고, 나이 들어가는 삶의 무게를 견뎌 내는 사랑하는 이들을 바라보며, 그들을 위한 한 아름의 기도를 가슴에 품고 지내야 했습니다.
삶이란 결국 끝없는 그리움의 여정일까요?
오늘은 테네시와 뉴욕, 뉴저지에 있는 가족과 소중한 친구들이 너무도 그립습니다. 그리고 창밖을 바라보며, 우리를 애타게 기다리고 있을 강아지들을 하루빨리 만나기를 손꼽아 기다립니다.
어쩌면 사랑은 시간이 흐를수록, 헤어짐과 다시 만남, 그리움과 감사가 한 올 한 올 엮여 우리의 삶을 아름답게 완성해 가는 것인지도 모르겠습니다.
출국을 하루 앞둔 저녁, 나는 1960년대 말과 1970년대 초, 교회 예배가 끝나면 친구들과 자주 모이곤 했던 신촌의 독다방(Eagle)에서 조용한 한 시간을 보냈습니다. 평생의 친구 완희와 함께 연세대학교 곁, 그리고 우리가 결혼식을 올렸던 창천감리교회 맞은편에 앉아 클래식 음악이 잔잔히 흐르는 공간 속에서 지난 세월을 되새겼습니다.
바로 그때 스피커를 통해 대통령 국정 브리핑이 흘러나왔습니다. 대한민국이 반도체, 피지컬 AI 및 로보틱스, AI 데이터센터를 3대 메가 프로젝트로 추진해 미래를 준비하겠다는 발표였습니다.
다시 떠날 채비를 하고 있는 그 순간에도, 나의 조국은 이미 새로운 미래를 상상하며 다음 시대를 향해 걸어가고 있었습니다. 그 사실은 내 마음에 조용하지만 깊은 희망을 안겨 주었습니다.*
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.
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 mindsin the universeis 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.
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