Not long ago, I waited for my older sister at JFK Airport with a mixture of excitement and nervous anticipation. It had been nearly fifteen years since we last saw each other. I wondered what I should say first, what I should ask, and—half‑jokingly—what I would do if she didn’t recognize me. As passengers streamed out of the plane, I scanned every face, anxious not to miss hers. After a long wait, I finally saw her. The moment our eyes met, we recognized each other instantly, and joy rose between us like a floating balloon.

We embraced in the terminal—two sisters reunited after so many years—and neither of us wanted to let go. But in my arms, I felt how thin she had become. I could sense that the past fifteen years had not been easy for her.

She looked exhausted and worn. Her body was frail, and her emotional strength seemed stretched to its limits. The bright, intelligent eyes she once had now appeared anxious and fragile. Yet I found myself searching for the poetic soul I had always known in her—certain that it still lived deep within her, unchanged since our youth.

Growing up, my sister—three years older—and I were almost the same height, so people often couldn’t tell who was older. Back then, when every school wore uniforms, Sundays were our battleground. We would push and pull, fighting over which dress to wear to church, until one of us inevitably burst into tears and filled the house with commotion. But on ordinary days, we were inseparable—singing hymns, Korean art songs, and even a mysterious tune called “Katari,” whose meaning we never understood but sang beautifully anyway.

One summer, my sister fell in love with a seminary student who had volunteered at Vacation Bible School. They soon married. A few years later, I married one of his seminary friends. Eventually, my husband and I moved to the United States, while my sister’s family continued ministry in Korea—until they felt called to volunteer as missionaries to Malaysia.

Malaysia is a Southeast Asian nation of many races and cultures, governed under a Muslim system where religion and state are intertwined. When my sister’s family left for Malaysia, they had to endure the pain of leaving behind their growing children—an involuntary separation that felt like tearing a family apart.

Malaysia, as part of its nationalist policy, restricts foreign missionaries. Visas had to be renewed every three months by leaving the country and re‑entering. Because of schooling issues, my sister and her husband left their two teenage sons (16 and 13) in a Methodist boarding home called Inwoo Dormitory, taking only their youngest (10) with them. But even the youngest was eventually expelled and had to return to Korea to live with his brothers. Later, all three children ended up living on their own without guardians.

“Why didn’t they wait until the children were grown before becoming missionaries? How could they leave their children like orphans?” These were the criticisms whispered around them—including from us. The guilt of leaving their children, the longing, the worry, the cultural shock, the heat, the visa struggles—all of it burned my sister’s heart to ashes day after day. When she visited Korea to see her children, their eyes—wide with longing for their parents—broke her heart. Yet after a brief reunion, she had to return again to the mission field.

In early September, my sister and I attended the First Global Korean Methodist Mission Conference in San Francisco. Listening to missionaries from around the world report on their ministries opened my eyes to the realities of mission fields. Though each situation differed, many shared the same uncertainty and danger. One missionary confessed that he always carried a final letter to his family in his pocket—just in case. Hearing this, I could only repent of my own lack of prayer.

Their burning hearts—willing to risk their lives to bring the gospel to people living in spiritual darkness—reflected the faith of the Apostle Paul, who said, “We are debtors to the gospel.” I made a vow before the Lord that my prayers for these workers, their families, and their ministries would never cease.

More than a hundred years ago, God opened the way for the gospel to reach the Korean people—then poor, superstitious, and spiritually oppressed. God continues His work today, calling His servants to carry out His mission. I felt renewed gratitude for the fiery love of missionaries like Underwood and Appenzeller, who obeyed the Lord’s command: “You shall be my witnesses to the ends of the earth.”

“Sister, just as God has protected your three sons until now, He will surely continue to protect them in the future. Right?” “Yes… yes, He will.”

On the final day of the mission conference, as missionaries prepared to return to their fields and pastors and laypeople hurried toward their flights, my sister and I embraced once more—another farewell without knowing when we would meet again. And suddenly, the melody of that old song “Katari,” which I can barely remember now, kept echoing in my mind.

— Yoon Wan‑Hee, September 26, 1994