The autumn scenery at Drew University in New Jersey was a quiet watercolor— a deep, vivid painting set in the calm beauty of the countryside. When the bright red and yellow leaves fell in flurries with each passing breeze, the young children of seminary students—children of every skin color— rolled around in the piles of leaves like little squirrels. Their young mothers, too, would often gaze up at the sun‑soaked autumn sky with dreamy eyes, as if trying to grasp a new heaven running toward them from far beyond the horizon.

One day, as autumn deepened, we celebrated my eldest daughter Sena’s sixth birthday. I had invited the neighboring seminary children to our student apartment and was busily preparing for the party. There was still nearly an hour left, when I heard a rustling sound outside. Curious, I looked through the glass door— and there was Sem, who adored Sena, already waiting at the door.

The child held something carefully in both hands, murmuring excitedly to himself with a flushed face. As I watched him with interest, I saw that he was holding a small glass fishbowl shaped like a swan. Inside the clear, rippling water was a single strand of seaweed and a bright red goldfish darting energetically between it. It was surely meant as a birthday present for Sena. Sem kept imitating the fish’s little mouth and could not take his big eyes off it— his whole expression pleading to place it into Sena’s hands as soon as possible.

I hesitated—should I let him in early, or ask him to wait a little longer? Just then, with a loud clatter, a group of children came thundering up the stairs. All the seminary kids from the student apartments had arrived. The moment they saw the bowl in Sem’s hands, their eyes widened, and they jostled one another, each insisting on being the first to see it. Sem, not wanting anyone else to look at it, turned away and wrapped both arms protectively around the bowl.

After finishing the last of the preparations, I placed Sena—dressed up like a little princess— in the center of the doorway. When I opened the door wide to welcome the children, they all pushed forward at once, trying to be the first inside.

At that instant, a sharp crash rang out, followed by Sem’s piercing scream echoing through the hallway. The children had pushed too hard, and Sem had dropped the bowl. In the blink of an eye, the glass swan shattered into pieces, and the red goldfish—just moments ago swimming freely and joyfully— flipped once 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 motionless before us in stunned silence.

“That was for Sena!” Sem’s choked cry broke the stillness. Sena’s face crumpled in confusion, and the children around us fell speechless. The joy and excitement that had filled Sem moments earlier had vanished—replaced by sorrow and anger. He wiped tears from his eyes for nearly the entire party.

This year, Sena turned twenty‑three. Even if we were to meet Sem—now a young man—on the street, we would not recognize him. But the memory of his broken gift returned to me one day, untarnished by time.

It was during one of the hardest, most bewildering seasons of my life— when people turned their backs, truth seemed nowhere to be found, false love shouted loudly, and exaggerated pride tried to cover the small, fragile valley of my soul. For weeks, for months, I lived with a suffocating, hungry heart, wiping away tears.

Then, through the faded forest path of memory, the red goldfish from the glass swan bowl came back to me. And it whispered that a true gift of love— even if broken, even if never delivered— remains forever in the heart of the one it was meant for. To love is a pain reserved only for the living, a flame‑like sorrow, a wildflower’s fragrant beauty.

God sent Jesus Christ as a gift to humanity. Yet at the doorway of history, He was wounded, trampled, and shattered. He thirsted, hungered, was betrayed, and was killed. And yet— a strange and wondrous thing happened. Jesus Christ, God’s broken gift, rose again on the third day, opening the door of death itself. For over two thousand years, He has brought green life to the frozen hearts of humankind, opened a door of light in the darkness, declared peace in the midst of war, and touched the sick with healing hands. And so, even today, we rise again. His gift has never once folded its wings of grace in the hearts of humanity. How deeply He must have hurt, how lonely, how sorrowful— because He loved us.

Ah— even now, beneath the autumn sky I once gazed at on Drew University’s campus, the red‑maple ache of love keeps falling and gathering on my heart. In autumn, His breath is heard deeper, closer.

— Yoon Wan‑Hee, 10/6/99