Not long ago, while sitting at the table with my children, we found ourselves laughing as we reminisced about the old parsonage. When our three children were still very young—ten, four, and one—we moved into a parsonage in Queens Village, New York, a house well over two hundred years old. It had once belonged to a large landowner in the area, and with its wide front and back yards, it became the place where our children made some of their happiest memories.

My oldest, Sena—now a college student—said her favorite memory was the cat. Every day after school she would run through the house with it, up and down the stairs. And whenever that mischievous cat got into trouble, it always chose to “take care of its business” quietly on the mink blanket on her bed, then slip away without a sound. The whole house would be in an uproar from the smell, and Sena laughed so hard recalling it that she pounded the table.

Yet even that foolish cat had a sense of dignity. Whenever it had to pass by my mother—whom it feared the most—it would lower its tail, stretch its back long, and walk with exaggerated humility. My mother was firmly against keeping animals in the house and was constantly upset that we didn’t throw the cat out immediately. One wrong move, and the cat risked a good swat from her.

My middle child, Serim—now in middle school—remembered the two parakeets. Their bright green feathers and elegant tails filled the house with song and playful chatter all day long. But they scattered their food everywhere, making a mess of the cage and even the living room. Serim always volunteered to clean both, taking pride in caring for them. After three years, the birds suddenly died on the same day, and she had to bury them together in an empty cheese box. She dug the ground carefully beside the parsonage and even made a small headstone.

Whenever it rained, she and her younger brother would look anxiously out the window, worried that the cheese box was getting wet. Then she would scold us, saying we were a heartless family for never once placing flowers on the birds’ grave.

My youngest, Sejun—then in elementary school—remembered the night we built three giant snowmen as a family. They were so big that when it came time to place the heads, their father had to bring out a ladder. But after a few days in the sun, the snowmen began to melt, and one day their heads rolled off onto the ground. He still remembers how shocked he was. Then he asked, “But why don’t we make snowmen like that anymore?” I fumbled for an answer: “Well… your dad is busy now. And you’re all grown up—why don’t you make them yourselves? It wouldn’t look right for Mom and Dad to be out there like that, would it?” He pouted and shrugged his shoulders.

Then the children asked about my memories. As I thought about it, the one that stood out most was their baby teeth. My oldest was grinding her molars, and the younger ones began losing their front teeth—all during our years in that parsonage. Whenever Serim lost a tooth, she would wrap it carefully and place it under her pillow with a note to the fairy: “Dear Fairy, please take good care of my tooth.” More than once, I forgot to remove the tooth during the night and was caught rummaging under her pillow at dawn.

When my oldest lost her first tooth, I was so fascinated that I kept it in a jewelry box. But by the time the second child began losing teeth, I didn’t know what to do with them anymore. So I simply threw each one onto the roof. Without thinking, I said, “That parsonage roof must be covered with Serim’s teeth!” She jumped up in horror. “What? You threw all my baby teeth on the roof?” She stared at me in disbelief. “Mom! Really?” My oldest squinted at me with pity. I hurried to explain: “When I was little, we threw our teeth on the roof so the magpie would take the old tooth and bring a new one. I’m Korean—shouldn’t we follow Korean tradition? Why give your tooth to some Western fairy you don’t even know?” Serim sighed deeply, shaking her head as if my explanation was more shocking than the act itself.

Someday we will sit around the table again, laughing and crying over stories of the old house. Our children’s souls have already flown like arrows toward the world called tomorrow, and we cannot keep up with their pace. But I still run breathlessly behind them, calling out:

“Trust in the Lord with all your heart and lean not on your own understanding. In all your ways acknowledge Him, and He will make your paths straight.” (Proverbs 3:5–6)

The old house— always a place where affection rises.

—Yoon Wan Hee, May 6, 1996