Our family has shared over almost two decade of life in faith with people of different races and ethnicities. When my husband was first ordained and began his ministry, we served in a predominantly white, Dutch-American church. The love and fellowship we shared there became one of the most precious and meaningful experiences of our lives.

We had been in the United States for only three years, our ears and tongues not yet attuned to the language. Raised and educated within a monoethnic culture, it was not easy at first to pray and work for people of another race. Despite praying and singing hymns, my heart felt unmoved. I often felt frustrated and disconnected. Visiting church members, attending women’s meetings, and other gatherings became a burden. I couldn’t understand much, nor could I speak well. I relied on facial expressions and a polite smile, saying “yes” or “no” without fully grasping the context, often leaving feeling inadequate and alone.

We lived apart from the Korean community, and the isolation weighed heavily on me. In those moments, I would often go to the Hudson River, not far from the parsonage. There, I watched the reflection of spring flowers dancing in the water, the lush green waves of summer, the fiery reds of autumn leaves, and the snowy ice drifts floating in winter. I poured out my heart to the Lord.

“Lord! I’m so lonely! So frustrated! I need a friend! Someone to talk to!”

And the Lord would respond gently through the quiet waters:

“Love. Just love.”

Before long, my husband began a dawn prayer service. Each morning, we would open the front doors of the church and faithfully pray together. As we opened the heavy church doors, pigeons roosting above would stir, flapping their wings as if disturbed by the early hour. We would sing Korean hymns to our hearts’ content and kneel on the cold floor, lifting up prayers for our church family.

Ten months after beginning these early morning services, a man in his fifties named Frank Hoffman, a nearby church member and construction company owner, walked into the sanctuary. He had long been curious about the church doors opening every morning and, moved by the Holy Spirit, came to pray with us. Tears streamed from his eyes as he explained that he had recently converted from Judaism to Christianity. From that day forward, he joined us every morning in prayer.

A few weeks later, a man in his thirties named Neil Irwin, a church member who worked at an auto repair shop, came out of curiosity—and then kept coming.

A year later, seven churches from our town—including a Reformed Presbyterian church, a Catholic church, a Full Gospel church, a Baptist church, and a Methodist church—began gathering together for united early morning prayer. Ministers, priests, nuns, laypeople, patients headed for surgery, and former inmates—all came to sing and pray in the name of Christ. A new spiritual awakening bloomed in the village, bringing tears of gratitude to our eyes.

We began sharing prayer requests, embracing each other in Christ’s love. Accompanied by a guitar, we sang gospel songs and hymns, praying earnestly for one another’s ministries. Walls once invisible yet towering like mountains began to melt. Where our hearts had once felt constrained, fresh breath and new life began to stir within the parsonage. Though I couldn’t speak much English, the church members began to treasure my smile more than any words. It was then that I came to understand why God placed a smile on the otherwise expressionless face of humanity.

Starting something new with American church members—who are often consistent and methodical once a practice is established—was never easy. Yet those who had formed a prayer group and committed themselves to a life of faith began to try new things with boldness. It was like watching a sleeping giant awaken.

On Sundays, members began standing before the congregation, sharing their testimonies with tears. The church roof and steeple were repaired. Flowers were planted around the church. The building doors no longer stayed shut during the week. Sunday school grew. Children’s choir robes, boxed and unused for 30 years, were taken out and worn again. Church members learned to enjoy kimchi, seaweed soup, and dumplings. I taught the women’s group how to make kimbap, fried rice, and dumplings—and in return, they taught me how to roast a turkey and bake pumpkin pie. Members even took turns giving me private English lessons.

In spring, we fished by the river. In summer, we celebrated Independence Day. In autumn, the entire church rode in horse-drawn wagons through glowing twilight fields, singing hymns and delighting in God’s creation. In winter, we built snowmen, sledded, and prepared Christmas plays together.

Years later, our family was reassigned to another church by the bishop. Frank and Neil became lay ministers(Local Pastor), leading and serving churches without pastors—faithful workers in God’s vineyard. Even after our departure, our former church invited us back annually for family concerts. Each visit brought overwhelming joy and reaffirmed that we were all, beyond borders and races, beloved children of God. I began to understand why God created humans with so many colors, not just one.

The union of races and nations is a holy calling. We must continue to love our neighbors of every color, learn from each other, and grow in mutual understanding. Let us always remember: reconciliation and unity between races are not only the task of politicians or special leaders. They begin with those of us who live by faith in Christ. When we choose to love first, the walls between us become building blocks of harmony, enriching our lives with depth and beauty.