The autumn scenery at Drew University in New Jersey was like a rich watercolor painting nestled in the quiet beauty of the countryside. When the crisp wind rustled the vivid red and yellow leaves to the ground, the young children of seminary students—of all skin tones—would tumble like squirrels over the piles of fallen leaves. Their young wives, with dreamy eyes, often gazed up at the sunlit autumn sky as if reaching for a new heaven rushing toward them from afar.

One deepening autumn day, my eldest daughter Sena turned six. I invited the children of neighboring seminary families to our student apartment and busily prepared for the birthday party. Though there was still an hour to go, I heard a rustling sound outside. Curious, I looked through the glass door and saw Sem, who adored Sena, already waiting outside.

Sem stood with something carefully held in both hands, his face flushed with excitement, murmuring softly with a smile. I watched with interest and saw that he was holding a small glass fishbowl shaped like a swan. Inside the clear water, a strand of seaweed swayed, and a bright red goldfish darted energetically between the leaves. It was surely a birthday gift for Sena. Sem mimicked the fish’s movements, unable to take his eyes off it, eager to place it into Sena’s hands.

I hesitated—should I let him in early or ask him to wait? Just then, a noisy group of children came clambering up the stairs. All the seminary kids had arrived. As soon as they saw Sem’s fishbowl, their eyes widened, and they jostled to get a closer look. Sem, not wanting to share, turned away and hugged the bowl tightly.

After finishing the party preparations, I dressed Sena like a princess and stood her at the center of the doorway. As I opened the door to welcome the children, they rushed in all at once, pushing through the narrow entrance.

Suddenly, a sharp crash rang out, followed by Sem’s piercing scream echoing through the apartment hallway. In the chaos, Sem had dropped the bowl. In the blink of an eye, the glass swan shattered, and the red goldfish that had just been swimming freely leapt into the air and fell helplessly onto the cold cement floor. Broken glass, spilled water, a strand of seaweed, and the gasping red fish lay still in the silence. “It was for Sena!” Sem’s choked sob broke the hush. Sena looked startled and teary, and the other children fell silent. Sem’s earlier joy had turned into sorrow and fury. He cried throughout the party.

Today, Sena is a 23-year-old young woman. Even if we met Sem as a grown man on the street, we likely wouldn’t recognize him. Yet his broken gift returned to me one day, unforgotten and vivid in my life.

It was one of the hardest and most bewildering days of my life. People turned away, truth was denied, false love shouted loudly, and exaggerated pride covered the valley of my weary soul. For weeks and months, I wept with a hungry heart. Then, the red goldfish from the swan bowl came back to me, swimming through the faded forest path of time. It whispered that a true gift of love, even if broken or never delivered, lives forever in the heart of the one it was meant for. To love—this is the pain only the living know, the sorrow like a burning flame, the beauty of a fragrant wildflower.

God sent Jesus Christ as a gift to humanity. But at the threshold of history, He was wounded, trampled, and shattered. He thirsted, hungered, was betrayed, and even killed. Yet something miraculous happened. Jesus, God’s broken gift, rose again three days later, opening the gates of death. For over 2,000 years, He has brought green life to frozen hearts, opened doors of light in darkness, proclaimed peace in war, and touched the sick with healing hands. Even now, we rise again because of Him. That gift has never folded its wings of grace. Because He loved us, how deeply must He have hurt, felt lonely, and grieved?

Ah, even today, beneath the autumn sky I once gazed at from Drew University’s campus, the pain of love—like falling red leaves—keeps piling on my heart. In autumn, His breath feels deeper and closer.

© Yoon Wanhee, October 26, 1999