(Letter from the Parsonage, Fourth Story in the ‘Those Who Remained in the City’ series)

© WanHee Yoon, 1989

That day, as if to cool the heat of midsummer, rain was pouring down after a long while.
When I tried to release her hand with repeated farewells, I could feel her dry fingers reluctant to let go of mine.

With a loud clang, I heard for a moment the nurse’s keys locking the iron door. Without turning back, I walked toward the elevator.

“Farewell! Once you return home, let your weary body rest, and within a month you must see a psychiatrist.”

“What? Why must I see a psychiatrist? I’m not insane!” For a brief moment, the double-lidded eyes of Miss Lee widened with surprise.

“As you said before, your vision has grown weak, hasn’t it? The doctor here has recorded in detail the medications you’ve taken and the symptoms you’ve shown. Once you’re back in Korea, you must show these to a psychiatrist.”

“Ah, so it’s because of my eyes?”

It seemed she still did not understand why she had been confined to a mental hospital for three long months.

For those three months, we had been invited into her life’s journey. Her path was a dry wilderness, a deserted road.

We first met her through a call from a neighborhood policeman: “There is a homeless Korean woman who refuses to leave the station. Please help.” From there, we traced the labyrinth of her past, found her mother in Korea, and spoke with her several times over the phone.

When I first met Miss Lee in the hospital visiting room, her upright, composed posture was striking. Indeed, she had once graduated from a graduate school in Korea and taught English literature at a university.

A determined woman, she had come to the United States alone to pursue a doctorate in education. But a car accident in New York years earlier, where she struck her head severely, may have been the beginning of her illness.

“At meals, I eat so quickly that food never digests—I always feel heavy in my chest. Please ask the doctor for some digestive medicine.”

“Why do you eat so hastily?”

“Because if I don’t eat quickly, I cannot claim a reclining chair to lie down in. Better to close my eyes in rest than sit face to face with those who cannot even speak with me.”

What thoughts filled her mind all day long?

“Do you know how much it costs to care for one patient per day? Including doctors, nurses, meals, lodging, and building maintenance—it’s $550 a day.”

No wonder the hospital insisted her family be found quickly. Yet it wasn’t their demand that weighed on me most—it was the sight of her lying like a gravestone, day after day, among the shouting, restless women of the ward.

For the first time, I felt deep gratitude for America’s tax system: even an undocumented immigrant, if in need of treatment, is first given care. What rooted such compassion in this land? Surely, it rests upon the love of God.

Through her, I glimpsed how deeply God longs for even one lost sheep, how earnestly He searches. My heart was stirred. We were only extras upon the stage of her life, yet God was weaving His own drama of restoration.

He sought to restore her broken dreams, to reconnect severed ties of kinship, to reawaken her one-to-one relationship with Him. His love for humanity is never generic, but always a precise and personal blessing.

Convincing her to return home was not easy. We had to renew her passport, persuade the airline—who refused to carry psychiatric patients—and finally arrange her passage.

Her last known address in this land was “Building Number 40.”
Building 40: the lowest, darkest stage of human struggle, where 1,500 lives—each more precious than the world—were striving for wholeness.

My own soul, accustomed to being comforted and healed, found it hard to play the supporting role—to comfort and heal another. Yet I learned that the well of my love dries up quickly without fresh rain, and that even this poverty of spirit is a gift of grace.

Still, to be called into God’s service—this remains a mystery and a wonder.

Now, our protagonist, Miss Lee, no longer needs a translator of her words. She has returned home—to the land where her mother and familiar faces wait for her, and to God, who holds her life.

But for us who remain here, Building 40 is still with us…