Every Sunday morning, as we walk through the church doors, we pass by that mysterious painting you created—the cross crowned with thorns. That picture always awakens an unforgettable memory. It takes us back to the days before our church’s 150th anniversary, when the old sanctuary ceiling was being restored by inmates from the nearby state prison.

To honor their hard work, the congregation prepared a dinner, and Rev. Yoon served Holy Communion. Each inmate received a cross to wear around his neck. That night, the inmates signed your painting one by one and presented it to the church.

A few years after your family moved away, one of those inmates returned to visit. Now a free man, he brought with him his beautiful fiancée. He showed her around the church where he had once worked as a prisoner. And then… he pointed to his own signature on your painting.

None of us could have imagined that our lives would one day leave such a deep mark on someone else.

With love, Harvey & Kathleen Durham

When I received their letter, I couldn’t help but shout for joy. It felt like an unbelievable miracle. Ah! That one of them had come back…

I could still vividly hear the hammering of those inmates as they hung from the ceiling, working with sweat and strength. I remembered their bright smiles and the sturdy figures in their blue uniforms.

It was about eight years ago, during the season of Lent. With the church’s 150th anniversary approaching that fall, the board had planned a major renovation. But financially, we were in a very fragile state. As the staff prayed over the many repair needs, a message came from the state prison in town. They were selecting model inmates for community service projects, and if we could provide the materials, the inmates would volunteer their labor free of charge.

The church staff unanimously approved, and the renovation began in earnest.

Every morning at seven, one guard and ten model inmates arrived to work. These strong men—husbands, fathers, the beloved heads of households—approached the task with sincerity. As though atoning for their past, they drove each nail with care, leaving no corner unfinished, working with hands that were both diligent and trustworthy.

“In the past, I hammered countless nails into people’s hearts without mercy. And to get what I wanted, I sawed away at other people’s lives without hesitation.”

Inside the sanctuary, the roar of power saws filled the air, but their bright, satisfied smiles shone even more. Any one of them, granted this small taste of freedom, could have changed his mind and escaped. We prayed earnestly every dawn that no accident or incident would occur until the work was finished.

Whether they wished it or not, they had become participants in the holy work of repairing God’s house.

On Good Friday, as the renovation neared completion, I had a dream in the early dawn. A figure dressed in white approached me, called my name, and placed a wooden cross in my hands. On the cross lay a crown of thorns—harsh and sharp, yet glowing with a radiant, transparent light, from which a rainbow arose.

When I awoke, my heart pounded with the vividness of that cross. How could these sinful hands dare to receive the cross of Christ?

At that time, I was completely absorbed in painting, spending nights in my basement studio without noticing the hours pass. With joy, I began painting the cross from my dream: the cross leaning against a background embracing the earth, the crown of thorns, and within it the tender rising of a rainbow…

As I finished, ready to sign my name, the faces of the inmates came to mind. I wanted, even in a small way, to comfort them for the sweat and labor they had poured out in the deepest and hardest valley of their lives.

The church decided to invite the inmates to a dinner of appreciation and encouragement. Wearing their neatly pressed blue uniforms and freshly shaved, they entered the fellowship hall with shy, awkward smiles. We greeted them with a standing ovation and pinned small lilac bouquets—just beginning to bloom—onto their chests.

After the lovingly prepared dinner and dessert, everyone joined in the Communion service.

“This bread is the body of Christ, given for you… This cup is the blood of Christ, shed for you… We now go into the world as the small body of Christ.”

We were all soaked in the warm love of Christ.

After Communion, Harvey Durham, representing the congregation, stood to offer heartfelt appreciation and encouragement. The inmates responded with genuine gratitude, as though new courage and resolve were rising within them.

Finally, I stood and unwrapped my painting.

“This picture is the cross I saw in a dream early on Good Friday. Though imperfect, I painted it with all my heart. Please sign your names here. We thank you for your labor, and we pray that wherever you go, God’s guidance will be with you.”

My deepest hope was that they would be invited into a new world in God. One by one, with solemn faces, they came forward to sign the painting—the cross encircled by thorns and marked with the covenant rainbow.

Ten inmates, one guard, and my own signature—twelve in all.

Though it was only a brief moment, I prayed that this moment would become a sign etched into their lives like a permanent tattoo, marking their welcome of Christ.

I donated the painting to the church, and the board decided to hang it on the inner wall of the sanctuary entrance. It still hangs today at the First United Methodist Church in Coxsackie, New York.

Even though we have not broken human laws enough to wear blue uniforms, in God’s eyes we are no different.

“As it is written: There is no one righteous, not even one.” (Romans 3:10)

Countless times a day I break God’s law, and each time I turn back, tears of repentance follow. Am I not wearing a spiritual blue uniform?

As I read the letter, the faint sounds of hammers, machines, and their whistling returned to me. I wondered how those inmates who signed the wooden cross that evening are living now. Do the others remember that they once signed their names on that cross?

“O Lord! Even if they no longer remember, help them realize that their names hang upon Your holy altar!”

— Yoon Wan-Hee, 1994