In my early twenties, while working in Chungmuro, Seoul, I lived with a friend in a rented room. On weekends, I would sometimes suddenly feel the longing to see my mother, who lived on the outskirts of Seoul, and I would go to visit her.

At that time, my mother was in her early fifties, raising my two younger siblings, and managing a poor household with the small living expenses I sent her. On the days I visited, she would exclaim, “My third daughter has come!” and laugh aloud with joy, as if a guest of honor had arrived. She would rush to the pump and bring me a cup of cold water, freshly drawn, smelling faintly of rust, and offer it to me with care.

The joy of seeing my mother, whom I missed so much, lasted only briefly. My heart would ache as I looked at her poverty and the shabby surroundings that never seemed to change. After sipping the cold water, I would always leave abruptly. I remember seeing the joy in her eyes fade like dying embers, and I would mutter inwardly: “Mother, how can you be so incapable? I hate this poverty and your helplessness.” Yet my mother, unaware of my unfilial thoughts, would follow me to the door and say, “Since you’ve come home, you should at least have a meal before you go! How can you leave without eating?” I would reply, “Mom, what’s so important about a bowl of rice? I’ve seen your face—that’s enough.” In truth, I feared that her poverty might cling to the hem of my own life.

It took me decades to understand her longing to feed her daughter one meal. After my own children grew up and left home, I realized that their visits became my greatest joy, my deepest anticipation. When word came that they were coming, I would wait with excitement, knowing that the best thing I could do for them was to prepare a delicious meal. I wanted to cook all the foods they loved, even dishes I had never shown them before, and feed them until they were satisfied. Sitting together at the table, I wanted to look into their lives—how they were doing, whether they were faithful in their walk with God, whether they carried burdens unknown to us. If they had problems too heavy to speak of, I wanted to sacrifice everything to help them. Only then did I understand a parent’s heart and love.

Now my mother, who once longed so desperately to feed her daughter a meal, is very ill. Living in New York, she has reached ninety-one years of age. Her immunity is weakening, and she no longer enjoys food. The mother I thought would always be by my side now seems as though she may suddenly leave me. In my anxiety and sorrow, I long to prepare for her one warm, delicious meal. And I want to confess that it is because of her presence throughout my life—her stability, abundance, blessing, love, wisdom, and patience—that I am who I am today.

Ah! That “a simple meal” my mother gave me was not only to fill my body’s hunger, but also the nourishment of my soul.