For the first time in many years, I was able to visit Korea for ten days. Sixteen years after immigrating, leaving behind my family and church to accompany my mother back to my hometown was a long‑awaited dream—an “outing” I had carried in my heart throughout my immigrant life. There had been many chances to go earlier, if only I had decided to. But perhaps I postponed those sixteen years because of a quiet belief that I should return home only after my life felt more settled—after I had matured as a woman and as a believer.

Yet the moment I stepped off the plane and onto the ground of Yeouido International Airport—filled with the breath and language of my own people—my heart fluttered. Everything felt precious and familiar. I even felt like the Pope who once kissed the ground upon arriving in Korea; I wanted to kneel and kiss the earth myself. As I embraced the faces I had longed to see, I wanted to tell them that because of them I had lived my best, and my life had been richer. Like cotton blossoms gathered into a single spool of thread, we were so precious to one another—yet we had allowed such distance for so long. All I could do was ask forgiveness.

While visiting different parts of my hometown, I traveled to Jeju Island. I was moved to rediscover how breathtakingly beautiful the mountains and fields of my own country are. The camellias blooming in full glory, the tangerine trees leaning over stone walls, the endless fields of yellow canola flowers—my soul felt as if it had been taken on a luxurious outing, soaring freely with the mountain wind. I realized how deeply longing shapes the human heart, and how the comfort of fulfilling that longing strengthens and beautifies us.

But even as the pink azaleas on the hills welcomed me with their fluttering skirts, I could not ignore the farmlands being filled in, the forests shaved down for ski resorts and golf courses—land groaning under the name of leisure. I found myself praying a quiet prayer of repentance for human selfishness, wondering how we would face the food shortages of the future. We need more than entertainment and industry; we need rest for the soul. Where will we find the quiet reflection, the solitude like a jewel, the gentle comfort of nature?

To have a hometown to long for, people to meet, and the chance to retrace the path of one’s life—this is a great gift of God’s grace given only to human beings. I was delighted to find a street vendor selling sweet red‑bean fish‑shaped bread and tasted it with nostalgia. I even insisted on taking the train so I could stand once more beneath the clock tower at Seoul Station—where a short‑haired friend and I had promised to meet at noon on the first snowfall. People still stood beneath that clock, clutching their bundles, anxiously watching the hands move as they waited for their own reunions. Thinking of the many separated families of North and South Korea who have waited decades for such a meeting, a sudden wave of sorrow rose within me.

There was no greater joy than reuniting with the faces I had missed for sixteen years. Those who had lived transparently still shone with clarity. Those who had chased empty dreams still wandered in them, hair now gray. Those who matured early in life were living steadily on the foundations they had built. As the saying goes, people continue living in the direction set by the first button they fasten in life.

During my travels, another longing stirred within me. Between the signs of tall buildings, the sight of a hamburger logo made me unexpectedly happy—more tempting than the soondae I had missed. And when I saw blond foreigners or Black travelers on the street, I felt a strange affection. For a moment, I was confused—was I the visitor from a faraway land? But soon I realized that Korea is not my only home. America—the land where my children were born and where their descendants will live—is also my home, my land, and my people. I now love two nations and two peoples, and my life has expanded in breadth and blessing.

This ten‑day journey was a precious opportunity to look back on my life and see my present place more clearly. Watching how quickly time had passed, I realized again how sacred time truly is. One day, when I return to my eternal home, I will look back on my life on this earth with longing and without regret. For the sake of that future day, I hope to let my life bloom like a clear, bright flower today.

— Yoon Wan‑Hee, October 16, 1997