Easter was just a month away, and choirs everywhere were busy preparing on this particular evening. The American congregation, with whom we shared the church building, was also hurrying into their rehearsal room. At that moment, a car pulled up to the front entrance. The door opened slowly, and a walker appeared first—then an elderly woman, severely overweight and struggling with her body, began to ease herself out of the car, leaning heavily on the door for support.

Sensing she needed help, I stopped what I was doing and approached her. To my surprise, it was someone I knew well—Miss Wilma Siever. She was gasping for breath, as even the act of getting out of the car seemed like a monumental effort. After greeting her with a long, warm hug, I asked with joy and astonishment, “What brings you here?” She smiled brightly, unable to hide her delight. Her short white hair and pale skin glowed softly in the evening light.

“Well… my body doesn’t work the way it used to,” she said, glancing playfully at Bob, who had driven her, “but I think I can still sing. So I called Bob and told him to come get me!”

We had known Wilma for nearly ten years. I still remember the day we moved to the American church in Queens Village, when she introduced herself as the pastor’s secretary. I had imagined a secretary to be young, energetic, and efficient—someone who would be a great help to the pastor. But the woman who appeared was an elderly lady with white hair, struggling even to support her own weight, breathing heavily with each step. On her desk sat a large nameplate: “Secretary, Wilma Siever.” Yet the slow, uneven rhythm of her typewriter—thud… click… thud… click—quickly taught me to let go of my expectations. Instead, I realized our role was to help her enjoy her remaining years with dignity.

Simply sitting in the church office, where her nameplate rested, made her happy. Her parents had been founding members of the church, and Wilma knew every corner of the building—who had been born, baptized, married, or buried there. Though she lacked administrative skill, her hearty laughter brightened the office every day. She also sang solos in the choir. She couldn’t read music, but she had the remarkable ability to hear the organ and sing the correct pitch. For fifty years she had served faithfully in the same church choir.

Last spring, news of her hospitalization saddened everyone who knew her. She had long suffered unbearable knee pain, and at a friend’s urging, she finally went to the hospital—where she was diagnosed with bone marrow cancer. With only a distant cousin as family, no one was available to care for her except the church members. Thankfully, an elderly woman in the congregation volunteered to take Wilma into her home. On days when Wilma needed special treatments, church members formed teams to carry her—this large, heavy woman—up and down the stairs.

Yet even as she received regular treatments, Wilma amazed us. She refused to let cancer define her. At every church event, she appeared in her wheelchair, smiling. When others looked at her with pity, she would pat their backs and say, “It’s okay! I’m going to be fine!”—never once losing her cheerful spirit.

Every Easter, she volunteered as a soprano for the neighboring church’s Easter music service. This year was no exception. When the American choir members saw her for the first time in a year, they greeted her with surprise and joy.

“Were you in a car accident? You look so thin!”

With her childlike, mischievous smile, she replied firmly, “My body may be like this… but I can still praise!”

Her voice was resolute.

She was no longer anyone’s secretary. She had entrusted even herself to God. And with every heavy step she took, leaning on her walker, we could see the strong hand of God holding her up.

— Yoon WanHee, March 14, 1994