These days, the moment I open my eyes, I find myself stepping into the backyard to tend the grapevines. Watching them has become one of my quiet joys. The two vines I planted several years ago are now heavy with countless clusters of green grapes. Even through the night they draw up water, and by morning each cluster looks twice as plump as the day before. I had never grown grapevines myself, but every late summer I would marvel at the beautiful clusters hanging in orchards. Their mystery and beauty stirred such longing in me that I finally bought young vines to plant—and they have rewarded me with unexpected delight.

This must be the seventh year. I still remember planting the young vines, their roots barely formed, gently digging the soil and whispering to them: “You will grow in this earth… and I will grow here in the ministry God has given me. We will drink the same moisture of His love.” The vine seemed to agree with me in its quiet way. That first year, it struggled to take root, and I imagined the day when birds would come to rest their weary wings in its shade. That spring, when new life pushed up between the dry branches, I was so moved that I couldn’t help but embrace the vine.

The grapevine grew vigorously. Its lush leaves and endlessly stretching branches filled me with anticipation for the fruit that would one day come. But one year passed, then another… and still no grapes. The leaves grew thick, but the vine itself twisted wildly, nothing like the graceful vine I had imagined. Looking at its unruly shape, I wrestled with whether to leave it as it was or prune it. Everything had grown from the same vine—cutting it felt wasteful and sad.

One spring, when new buds began to swell everywhere, I finally decided to prune without hesitation. Each branch had become familiar to me—gentle, innocent creations—but if I wanted the vine I had envisioned, I could no longer allow these wild shoots to grow unchecked. Cutting each branch pained me deeply. My breath tightened, and I felt as though the hidden branches of my own self were being cut away.

But then, astonishingly, from the few branches that remained, tiny clusters appeared—smaller than millet grains—two or three at a time. Barely visible, fragile, and insignificant, they began to swell day by day under the summer sun, wind, and storms. Watching them grow reminded me again how great and beautiful the joy of nurturing life truly is.

The soil of immigrant ministry is rough and dry. Whether a church is large or small, trials and sorrows never cease. When I meet fellow pastor’s wives on the street, the deep shadows of concern on their faces break my heart. “I’ve been thinking of you,” one says—and in that single sentence we share countless unspoken stories. We embrace each other silently, whispering “Stay strong,” but as I walk away, her weary figure becomes my own, and tears blur my vision.

Today, beneath the ripening grapevine, I imagine the sweet fruit that will one day ripen within me. Like a vine growing in the Lord’s garden, He knows exactly which branches in me must be cut away. And when the beautiful fruit finally appears, He will surely rejoice over me.

The words of a retiring pastor’s wife return to me like a sudden summer rain: “Live each day in prayer—with the heart of a martyr.”

by WanHee Yoon (June 30, 1999)