A few nights ago, my husband and I sat anxiously in front of the television late into the night. We had been tuning in since the afternoon, nervously listening for news of tomorrow’s weather. Yet to our dismay, the forecast warned of a sudden flood alert. It was disheartening. After all the days of planning, praying, working, and waiting—now this?

Still hoping, we checked the late-night news one more time. But the reports confirmed it: heavy rain was expected, and in the northern areas, even 4 to 5 inches of snow. At last, we concluded that the trip would have to be postponed.

But as soon as we made that decision, the faces of those who were excited for their first journey with us came to mind, along with the image of the youth waiting for us. We could picture their disappointment.

“Lord, what will You do?”

“God, we believe in Your power—the power that parted the Red Sea and led the Israelites across the Jordan River. If it is Your will, please blow away these heavy clouds covering New York City and the state with a single breath, or hold them in place in the sky—just don’t let anything interfere with tomorrow’s mission.”

With that desperate prayer, we went to bed.

At 4 a.m. the next morning, expecting to see fierce wind and rain, I looked out the window. The sky was still brooding with thick clouds, but it was calm. Surprisingly, it wasn’t that cold. A certainty stirred in my heart: God is with us. With renewed hope, we quickly prepared to leave for the prison visit we had planned.

The church bus, carrying 12 church members who had come from various places despite their lack of sleep, began making its way north on New York’s highways under light drizzle.

We were on our way to deliver baskets of love to Korean-American youth incarcerated in prison—young people whose names and faces we didn’t even know. One person took their child out of school for the day to join. Another left their dry-cleaning business in someone else’s care. One woman, who usually rings the Salvation Army bell at Christmas, said she wanted to be the bell herself this year and came along.

One deaconess came even though her daughter, who had been ill, was visiting that day from far away. “Whether she’s with me or in God’s hands, she’s always cared for. I can see her when I return,” she said.

We were Catholic, Presbyterian, Salvation Army, United Methodist, Korean Methodist, Holiness, and Full Gospel members—different denominations, many strangers to one another. Yet as anonymous Christians, we came together, boldly breaking the chains of everyday obligations to serve.

After passing through several layers of clanging iron gates and muddy roads under construction, we finally reached the young men. There was no need to ask what crimes they had committed, no need to forgive or condemn, no reason to boast that we had come from far away.

We simply stood before them—moved to tears by the love of God the Father, who did not count our sins against us when we were still sinners, but crossed the river of prophecy and sent His only Son to us. During the short one-hour-and-fifteen-minute visit, we sang carols, shared God’s Word, and embraced with warm love and encouragement.

As the time for roll call came, the young men—holding the lovingly prepared baskets of love—hurried away at the guard’s command.

On the way home, gentle rain still fell under unexpectedly mild skies. But in our spirits, we could feel that a mysterious star—like the one that appeared before the shepherds on a midnight field 2,000 years ago—was guiding our steps.

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