© Yoon, Wan-Hee

In the parsonage living room stands an orchid, nearly fifteen years old. It came as a gift when my mother-in-law carefully separated a shoot from her own cherished orchid and entrusted it to us, reminding me several times to raise it well. In the first few years, because it was given by her, I cared for it with special attention. But as time passed, it was left neglected in one corner of the living room.

Yet the orchid has kept its life until now. Last year, it bloomed for the first time with beautiful white flowers, bringing great joy to our family.

Whenever my mother-in-law called our home, along with asking about the children and family news, she never failed to check if the orchid was growing well. So, I often shared updates about it. Once assured that her daughter-in-law cherished and cared for the orchid she herself held dear, she would always change the subject with quiet satisfaction.

So thoughtful was she, that whenever the children’s birthdays approached, she and Father would faithfully send a carefully chosen card. She would then confirm whether it was received, and afterward ask how happy the child had been. The children, in turn, always delighted most in the birthday card that surely arrived from their grandparents, and they were grateful for their love and care.

Just a few days ago, with our second child’s birthday approaching, Mother called again. But this time, in the middle of mentioning the birthday, she suddenly began to choke with tears:

“My dear, it seems we can no longer be grandparents to your children… President Clinton has signed it. Your father and I should have died early, but we seem to have lived too long.”

I was startled. “Mother, what are you saying? … Ah! It must be because of the welfare cuts!”

Through her trembling words, I suddenly felt in my bones how serious the issue of welfare reform had become.

Because we were in ministry, since coming to America my in-laws had never let us worry about their living. They lived out their later years in a senior apartment on welfare. As her words sank in, I was filled with sorrow and guilt toward them, along with gratitude for the American social security system. That this system, which had given them dignity and joy in their twilight years in a foreign land, might now fade into history—this was truly painful.

I tried to console her: “Mother, why worry when you have children? You and Father can apply for citizenship. And remember, when God closes one door, He has already prepared another.” Outwardly I spoke boldly, but inside my heart was heavy. I thought of the countless people living without even a green card, much less citizenship, and the hardship that awaited them. I worried also about the impact this would have on the livelihoods of our fellow Koreans who ran small businesses serving poor neighbors.

After hanging up, I felt ashamed and heartbroken. In our tradition, parents should be able to lean on their children, yet because I had left everything to welfare and lived in indifference for so many years, I had failed even to sense my in-laws’ fear and disappointment for the future—concerned only with my own life.

Thinking of my in-laws living lonely in the senior apartment, I looked at the orchid I had long ignored. “How could I have been so heartless? Life is life…”

The orchid was covered in dust, its leaves limp from thirst. Yet through all these silent years it had remained in the corner of our living room—warm and unchanging, like my mother-in-law’s tender presence.

“My dear… it seems we have lived too long…” Her words echoed in my heart like raindrops drawing circles on a still river. As I gazed at the orchid, I deeply regretted not treasuring and tending it all these years.