(From the Parsonage Letters, “Those Who Remained in the City,” Story Eleven, 1994)

© WanHee Yoon

One of the tasks of a parsonage in Queens Village, NY, near Jamaica, is to welcome visitors who may arrive at any time, day or night. Sometimes it means giving shelter to a traveler lost on a snowy midnight, preparing a warm meal for the hungry, providing clothes for those who have none, or helping someone stranded without fare reach their destination. Such moments are a special blessing given only to those who live in the parsonage.

Guests might come in broad daylight or at two or three in the morning. Some arrive with unavoidable circumstances, truly in need of help. Others come seeking aid to satisfy destructive habits—drugs, alcohol, gambling. At first, such visits left us surprised, annoyed, and even upset. But after nearly twenty years in the parsonage, we grew used to it. Instead, we began to give thanks that they came to us and not to be rejected or misused elsewhere.

In this distrustful age, when the world grows harsher and trustworthy people seem fewer, the parsonage is still seen as a place of refuge. Through those who come, we hear their stories and rediscover God’s unending love.

It is joyous to receive an unexpected gift, but there is a deeper, incomparable joy in sharing—even from our own lack—with a stranger. That joy does not fade with time; it rises again and again, remaining as treasure in the soul.

One autumn afternoon, as the season was fading, a weary Korean man in his fifties knocked on the door. Exhausted, nearly collapsing, he introduced himself:

“This morning, after thirty-four months, I was released from prison. I came walking since nine o’clock, hoping to find a friend who lived here. But I was told he moved two years ago. I don’t know where. My heart sank as I turned away… then I saw Korean children playing and found my way here.”

Sweat streamed down his scarred face. I quickly sat him down and ran to the kitchen. By grace, there was still warm rice in the pot. I set before him rice piled high, with green chili peppers, soybean paste, red pepper paste, kimchi, and a bowl of cold water.

It didn’t matter who he was—what could compare to a steaming bowl of rice with kimchi for someone who had longed for it through prison walls? His story could wait. Even his name didn’t matter. What mattered was that he had come to the parsonage. Sharing that meal brought tears to my eyes.

He prayed with eyes closed, then began to eat eagerly. Within moments, two bowls were gone. A smile broke across his face:

“Ah! How I longed for kimchi and pepper paste in prison…”

He then told his story. Thirty-eight years old. Immigrated to California in 1980, opened a vegetable store, married, then separated within three months. Came to New York for a new start. One night, walking out of a restaurant with a friend, he saw a woman being attacked by two men. He rushed to defend her, beating them badly. When police arrived, his friend urged him to flee, “I have a family!” but he was caught and imprisoned for violence.

His only friend visited once in nearly three years, holding the ten thousand dollars that had been his entire fortune.

As he spoke, tears brimmed. He sighed deeply. He had walked almost seven hours in search of that friend, carrying hope.

“He promised: ‘Don’t worry about money. When you’re released, I’ll help you start again.’”

But the friend had vanished. Still, he clung to that one word of friendship, believing it could heal the pain of thirty-four months behind bars.

He recalled his sister in California, who once kept a shop in Koreatown. But the riots of April 30—Rodney King, flames, looted stores, gunfire, wailing—had destroyed much of that community. He nodded, convincing himself her shop had survived.

The pastor asked his plan. He wished to go to Boston, to a friend working as a chef. “He will care for me until I can stand on my own,” he said. Given some fare and meal money, he left with relief, vanishing into the evening light.

As I washed his empty bowl, tears welled in my eyes. The sunset glowed red. Leaves fell in showers where he had sat.

Time and again we wound each other, yet still seek, long for, and trust in one another. Perhaps wandering is in our nature. Yet through these strangers, God whispers His love again.

Where can we meet our true friend? Remembering the eternal friendship of Jonathan and David, we are moved to tears by the mercy of God, who calls us “friend.”