I went out to the backyard to finally tend the little garden I had been putting off for so long. I should have taken care of it and thinned things out much earlier, but I kept missing the right moment. When I finally stepped outside, I found lettuce, perilla leaves, strawberries, cucumbers, and squash all tangled together, each struggling desperately to grow. Perilla leaves were sprouting between the slender blades of chives, and the strawberries—having stretched their runners tirelessly even through winter—had already claimed nearly every patch of soil, waving their green flags triumphantly. Everything was so intertwined that it was impossible to tell what was what.
Here and there, acorns that had fallen from the trees last autumn had quietly taken root and were now confidently claiming their own spaces. This tiny piece of land was overflowing with disorder and confusion. Even while I excused myself for being too busy to make time, the earth had been working tirelessly, nurturing life—both the things I planted and the things I never planted—each racing to grow.
With a mix of guilt and excitement, I picked up my small trowel and began clearing the garden one plant at a time. The young roots of the oak seedlings were stubborn and would not come out easily, but I couldn’t leave them there. The strawberry vines, which had multiplied the most vigorously, were pulled out or moved to empty soil. I cut down and cleared away the thistles and weeds without hesitation, giving the garden some breathing room.
The water celery, which had survived for years with nothing but enough moisture to stay yellow and barely alive, was moved into several water containers. After filling them generously with water, the celery lifted its leaves toward the sky as if nodding gratefully. Seeing even these silent plants respond with gratitude to a little care and attention made me realize how insensitive and inattentive I often am toward people. Their withered, yellowed lives—like neglected leaves—felt suddenly like my responsibility. As raindrops fell between the revived celery leaves, forming round ripples, it seemed as though little green frogs might pop their heads out at any moment and croak with joy.
After spending half the day bent over, sweating, and letting the soil stain my hands, the once-chaotic garden finally settled into a clear, orderly shape. As I looked over the garden, I thought, If I don’t tend to my soul even for a little while, won’t it end up just like this? And I began to reflect on the garden of my own spirit.
It is strange. Just as unplanted weeds grow thick on their own, worldly things take root in the soil of the soul even without being sown. Seeds of pride, judgment, anger, and greed sprout instantly and spread until they cover everything. But the seeds of sincere, sanctified faith take great effort to root and push up a tender shoot. When the sprout first appears, it may not look like much, but one day—when it finally blooms—its beauty and fragrance captivate everyone. That beauty and fragrance endure across generations.
Pulling weeds and tending the garden—this is the secret to emptying the heart and nurturing faith. If we do not examine ourselves daily when the weeds of the heart begin to sprout one by one, the seeds of faith grow weak and sickly. Before we know it, the vines of compromise creep in and cover the field of the heart. To grow even a single tree of faith, the soil of the spirit must be governed by the Word, and we must sweat in prayer. This unceasing spiritual labor is not easy, for it requires resisting the comfort of the flesh.7/18/1996
A garden where birds sing, breezes blow, the scent of soil rises, and living things ripple with life is a place where God dwells—so it brings joy and delight to the heart. As I tended and watched over the vegetables, strength returned to my weary soul. The garden of the soul is a precious place that must be cultivated with time and devotion. We must stay awake to discern whether what is growing there is useful or whether it is weeds that weaken and exhaust the spirit. A garden where humility, love, joy, gratitude, praise, and worship grow in order and beauty becomes a resting place for the soul.
After pulling the weeds from the garden, my heart felt refreshed and light. Lifting the trowel of the Word and prayer, I turn to the weeds of vanity and worldly attachment growing in the garden of my soul.
그동안 미뤄오던 텃밭을 손보기 위해 뒷뜰에 나가 보았습니다. 진작에 손을 보고 분가를 해주었어야 되는데 시기를 잡지 못하고 있다가 나가보니, 상추, 깻잎, 딸기, 오이, 호박이 한대 어울려 저마다 안간힘을 쓰며 힘들게 자라고 있었습니다. 가는 허리를 내밀고 있는 부추잎 사이에 깻잎들이 자라나고, 겨울내내 쉬지도 않고 넝쿨을 뻗어가던 딸기가 왠만한 땅은 다 점령 한채, 초록의 깃발을 날리고 있었습니다. 도대체 모두가 어울어져 무엇이 무엇인지 알 수 없었습니다. 그 틈 사이에 작년 가을, 나무 위에서 떨어졌던 도토리들도 여기 저기서 어엿이 그 뿌리를 내리고 한자리들을 차지하고 있었습니다. 조그만 땅조각이 무질서와 혼돈으로 가득하였습니다. 그동안 바쁘다고 핑계를 대고 시간을 내지 못하는 동안에도 땅은 열심히 쉬지않고 생명을 키우고 있었으며, 심지 않은 것들과 심은 것들이 너도나도 숨가쁘게 자라고 있었던 것입니다.
저는 미안한 마음과 설레는 마음으로 텃밭을 향하여 꽃삽을 들고 하나씩 하나씩 정리하기 시작하였습니다. 도토리 나무의 어린 뿌리가 잘 뽑혀지지 않았으나, 그냥 놔둘 수 없었었습니다. 가장 왕성한 번식을 하였던 딸기 넝쿨들도 뽑아내거나, 빈 땅으로 옮겨주었습니다. 엉겅퀴와 풀들도 사정없이 잘라내고 걷어내면서 여유를 주었습니다.
그동안 몇년째 물없이 누렇게 생명 만 유지하고 있던 미나리는 여러개의 물통에 옮겨 주고 넉넉히 물을 부어주고 나니, 하늘을 안은 미나리들이 앞다투어 감사하다고 고개를 살랑거리는 것 같았습니다. 저렇게 말없는 식물들도 조금 만 사랑해주고 돌봐주면 감사해하는데, 사람들에게 너무나 무관심하고 예민하지 못하여 그들의 삶이 누렁 잎사귀 같은 모습은 모두가 내탓이구나! 싶었습니다. 생기를 얻은 미나리들의 잎사이로 떨어지는 빗방울들이 동그랗게 무늬를 그리며 금방이라도 청개구리들이 고개를 내밀고 “개골 개골“ 울어줄 것 만 같았습니다.
한나절을 엎드리어 땀을 흘리며, 흙을 손에 묻히고보니 그토록 무질서 하던 텃밭이 이제는 한눈에 질서있는 모습으로 들어왔습니다. 저는 텃밭을 들여다 보면서 나의 영혼도 잠시라도 돌봐주지 않으면 저모양으로 있겠지! 하며 제 영혼의 텃밭을
생각해 보았습니다.
이상한 일입니다. 심지 않은 잡풀들이 무성하게 자라듯, 세상 것들은 씨를 뿌리지 않아도 영혼의 밭에 떨어지기 만 하면 금방 깊은 뿌리를 내립니다. 교만, 판단, 분노와 탐욕의 씨앗은 순식간에 자라고 무성하게 덮어버립니다. 그러나, 진실되고 성화된 믿음의 씨앗은 참으로 힘들게 뿌리를 내리고 싹을 틔여 올립니다. 그러나, 싹이 오를 때에는 별로 달라보이지 않으나, 어느날 그 아름다움의 꽃을 피울 때에는 그 향취와 자태 앞에 모두가 반하게 됩니다. 그 아름다움과 향기는 많은 세대를 넘으며 발하게 됩니다.
텃밭의 잡초를 뽑아내고 가꾸는 것- 마음을 비우며 믿음을 키워나가는 비결입니다. 마음의 잡풀이 하나 둘 싹트기 시작할 때, 매일 매일 돌아보지 아니하면, 믿음의 씨앗은 연약해지고 병들어 갑니다. 어느새 찾아온 적당과 타협의 넝쿨들이 마음
밭을 뒤덮어버립니다. 한포기 믿음의 나무를 키우기 위해선 말씀으로 심령의 밭을 다스리고 기도의 땀흘림이 있어야 합니다. 끊임없는 영적인 노동은 사실 쉽지 않습니다. 육신의 안이함에 맞서 투쟁해야 만이 얻어질 수 있는 산물이기 때문입니다.
새가 있고 바람이 있고, 흙의 향기와 살아있는 생명들이 물결치는 텃밭은, 하나님이 함께하는 곳이기에 마음에 즐거움과 기쁨이 있습니다. 푸성귀들을 돌보고 바라보는 동안 지치고 피곤한 영혼에 소생하는 힘을 얻습니다. 영혼의 텃밭- 시간과 정열을 쏟아 가꾸어야 될 귀한 장소입니다. 이 텃밭에서 자라고 있는 것들이 쓸만한 것들인지, 아니면 나의 영혼을 병들고 지치게 하는 잡초들인지 깨어 돌봐야 합니다. 겸손과 사랑, 기쁨과 감사, 찬양과 경배의 화초들이 질서있고 아름답게 자라는 텃밭은 나의 쉼터가 됩니다.
텃밭의 잡풀들을 뽑고나니 마음도 즐겁고 상쾌해집니다. 제 영혼의 텃밭에 자라고 있는 세상을 향한 온갖 허영심과 미련의 잡풀들 위에 말씀과 기도의 삽을 들어봅니다.
At our church, we share a fellowship meal of love every Friday evening. Even though it is late, the members finish their day’s work and hurry to the sanctuary, where they sit together around the table, sing hymns, and listen to the Word of God—the manna of life. Then, with simple bread or crackers shared with water or juice, we honestly speak about our failures and victories as Christians throughout the week.
It is never easy to look back on one’s week as a Christian and share openly with courage. When we confess the times we failed to live as salt and light in our daily lives, we ask one another for prayer for our weaknesses and sins. We confess before God that we are all sinners, and we reaffirm that God alone is our strength and power.
One deaconess was the first to open her heart wide. “I almost didn’t make it here tonight, but I’m so glad I came,” she said as she began to share what had happened that day. She and her husband run a dry-cleaning business, and it was the day they raise the annual wages of their employee who works the press. Her husband had already decided on an amount—so generous that it startled her—and asked for her thoughts. Shocked, she protested, “What? Other businesses are struggling so much they’re letting employees go, and we’re raising wages that much?”
Her husband, faced with her strong opposition, quietly replied, “I don’t understand why you’re against raising his pay. Either give up your position as a deacon, or agree to the raise. Choose one.” “…What does being a deacon have to do with raising an employee’s wages?” she shot back. She had always prided herself on being ahead of her husband in faith, but his words struck her deeply. “You hear every week at church that we must love our neighbor. Why don’t you practice it? How much will we really lose by being a little more generous to someone who is poor?”
Even though she knew her husband was right, she still felt uneasy and reluctant to agree to the wage increase. When the workday ended and it was time to go to church, she hesitated to ask her husband for a ride, remembering his ultimatum: “Either give up being a deacon or agree to the raise.” She felt completely stuck.
Finally, though her heart wasn’t fully willing, she approached her husband to make peace. “Alright, dear. Starting next month, let’s do it your way.” She admitted that she said it mostly because she wanted to go to church—but once she said it, a joy unexpectedly welled up inside her, and she found herself giving thanks to God. She confessed how double‑minded she had been as a Christian and testified that loving one’s neighbor is not an abstract idea after all.
All the gathered members rejoiced in her victory and saw in her story a mirror of themselves.
We often hear the saying, “When our eyes are closed in prayer, we are Christians; but when our eyes open, we are not.” Unless our daily lives and our faith walk together, we inevitably find ourselves in difficulty. I, too, experience this often. First John 3:18 says, “Dear children, let us not love with words or speech but with actions and in truth. This is how we know that we belong to the truth and how we set our hearts at rest in His presence.”
Among the many challenges in my spiritual life, “deeds and truth” remains one of the greatest. There are more times when my words and actions do not align than when they do, and each time, my conscience convicts me. The world expects Christians to live out this responsibility. Knowing that a sinner can live aware of their sin is itself God’s grace. And “deeds and truth”—this is surely the lifelong assignment God has given me.
저희 교회는 매주 금요일 저녁에는 사랑의 애찬식을 나누고 있습니다. 늦은 저녁이지만 하루의 일과를 마치고, 성전에 달려온 성도들은 테이블에 함께 둘러 앉아 찬양을 부르고, 생명의 만나인 성경 말씀을 듣게됩니다. 그리고 간단한 빵이나 크랙커를 물이나 쥬스와 함께 나누며 한주간의 그리스도인으로서의 실패와 승리를 서로 솔직히 나누게됩니다.
자신의 그리스도인으로서의 한주간의 삶을 돌아보며 용기있게 나누는 일은 쉬운 일은 아닙니다. 성도들 앞에서 일상생활을 통해 빛과 소금의 역할을 감당치 못했을 때의 패배와 실패를 나누며 자신의 연약함과 죄를 위해 서로 기도 부탁하게됩니다. 우리는 하나님 앞에서 우리 모두는 죄인임을 고백하고 하나님 만이 우리의 힘과 능력이심을 다시 확인 합니다.
어느 여집사님이 먼저 마음 문을 활짝 열었습니다. “난 하마터면 오늘 이 자리에 못올줄 알았는데, 오게 되어 기쁩니다”라며 그날있었던 일을 나누셨습니다. 세탁소를 하고 계신 집사님께서는 일년에 한 번씩 프레스를 하고 있는 종업원의 급료를 올리는 날이 왔답니다. 집사님의 남편께서는 주급 인상에 대해 지나치게 후할 정도로 많은 액수를 정해 놓고 부인께 상의하는 것이였습니다. 집사님은 깜짝 놀라서 “아니, 남들은 장사가 않되어 오히려 종업원들을 내보낸다는데, 우리는 그렇게 많은 급료를 올려주다니요?” 하며 반대를 하였답니다. 아무 말없이 부인의 절대 반대에 부딪힌 남편께서 말씀하시길 “당신이 종업원의 급료 인상을 왜 반대하는지 모르겠군요! 그러면 집사직을 내놓튼지 급료를 인상하는데 동의 하든지 둘 중에 하나를 택하시오!” “… 아니? 집사직하고 종업원 급료 인상하고는 무슨 상관예요?” 평소에 신앙생활엔 남편보다도 앞서 간다고 자찬하던 집사님은 뜨끔해졌습니다. “당신은 교회서 이웃을 사랑하라는 말씀을 매주 들으면서 왜 실천은 하지 않는거요? 우리가 저 가난한 사람에게 조금 후하게 한다고 얼마나 손해를 보겠소?”
남편의 말은 사실임에도 불구하고 아무리 생각해봐도 급료를 인상해주는 일에, 마음이 영 불편한채 선뜻 응해지지 않았습니다. 일은 끝나고 교회는 와야 될터인데 남편에게, 교회데려다 달라고 부탁하자니 “집사직을 내놓튼지 급료를 올리는 일에 동의하든지 하라”고 한 남편의 말이 생각나 여간 난감한 일이 아니었습니다. 집사님은 내끼지 않는 마음으로 남편에게 화해를 먼저 청했습니다. “여보! 좋아요. 그러면 다음 달부터 당신 원하는데로 하세요!” 교회에 올 욕심으로 할 수 없이 취한 행동이었느나, 말하고 나니 왠지 마음 속에서 기쁨이 솟아나며, 하나님께 감사하게되었다는 것이였습니다. 집사님은 자신이 얼마나 이중적인 그리스도인이었는지를 고백하며, 이웃을 사랑함이 결국 추상적인 것이 아님을 깨달았노라며, 간증을 하였습니다.
모였던 모든 성도님들은 집사님의 승리에 기뻐하며, 우리 자신의 거울을 비쳐 보듯 하였습니다.
“눈감고 기도 할 때는 그리스도인인데, 눈을 뜨면 그리스도인이 아니다”라는 말을 흔히 듣는 일은 삶과 신앙생활이 함께 가지 않는한 우리는 어려움 속에 처할 수밖에 없음을 제 자신도 종종 경험케 됩니다. 요한일서 3:18절 말씀에 “자녀들아 우리가 말과 혀로만 사랑하지말고 오직 행함과 진실함으로 하자 이로써 우리가 진리에 속한 줄을 알고 또 우리 마음을 주앞에서 굳세게 하리로라”라는 말씀이 있습니다.
신앙생활을 하면서 저에게도 가장 큰 도전을 주는 것중에 하나는 “행함과 진실”인 것 같습니다. 말과 행동이 같을 때보다, 어긋나며 살때가 더 많은데, 그 때마다 늘 양심의 정죄함을 받게됩니 다. 세상은 그리스도인들이 이 책임을 완수하며 살아주기를 요구합니다. 죄인이 죄인 임을 알고 살수 있는 것 하나님의 은혜이며, “행함과 진실” 이것은 저의 평생의 숙제임에 틀림없습니다.
The war began at the year’s edge, a sudden hinge where ice and ember meet, from the opening of January to the first green note of Spring.
Who knows when the killing ground learned to wear the shape of a playground’s lawn?
Tears braided themselves into brown rivers across the faces of parents, daring the road from eye to cheek with memory.
In those days when waters crowded tight, when the sea pressed its teeth against Persia and Arabia, the Strait of Hormuz stood as a gateway among nations— a theater where kingdoms rose and fell as capriciously as the tide.
Lo, an oil ship glided through the passage, heavy as a fallen idol, its hull stacked with the earth’s wealth, its shadow staining waters that once bore the caravans of Hormuz, that island‑kingdom, the red fortress that kept faith with prayers to long‑gone powers and the cannons of far‑flung empires.
Beside the vessel, sorrow walked, for so many lives had been claimed by these depths— sailors swallowed by storms, merchants erased by war, names slipping from memory as stones are worn smooth by the sea.
Anger rose, a desert wind, unyielding and bright. War trapped the narrow place, binding the strait with a throat‑tight cord. Breath failed before it could be spoken, and the waters groaned beneath the weight of humanity’s relentless striving.
Yet even there, in the throat of constriction, among ancient cliffs and the hum of engines new and old, a sign appeared.
On the first day of Spring, a subtle glow arose in my chest— not the lacquered splendor of armies, nor the pomp of rulers, but a small, stubborn light that darkness cannot swallow. It shone like the dawn on oil‑dark waters, a whisper of possibility beyond war’s reach.
The seasons, the book says, open what men have closed. Beyond the bottleneck, the sea loosens its grip; beyond pain, a future unscrolls itself. If the ship endures, it will navigate toward open waters again. So will we, in time.
Thus speaks Hormuz on the day of Spring: the narrow is not the final line, sorrow not the ultimate sentence, and from suffering’s pressure, a broader mercy shall rise.
Among those who climb mountains, ice‑wall climbing is said to be in full swing these days. These climbers deliberately seek out the steepest and most dangerous places—frozen waterfalls and icy cliffs sealed hard by bitter cold. They drive their axes into the ice, push through blizzards and treacherous frozen paths, and ascend with nothing but a single rope between themselves and death. They say the tension of that ascent is part of the sport’s thrill.
A single misstep can send a heavy, sharp block of ice crashing down on one’s body. A cracked sheet of ice can suddenly shatter, leaving one’s foothold suspended in midair. Many have reached such extreme moments and lost their lives. Yet people still savor the winter mountains.
If those of us who have never tasted the challenge or the exhilaration of victory ask, “Why put yourself through such hardship?” they would likely turn away and say, “Don’t ask unless you’ve tried it!”
On December 12, 1995, on the icy continent of Antarctica—on Vinson Massif (5,140m), the highest peak where the breath of ancient ages lies asleep—Korean climber Heo Yong‑ho unfurled the Taegeukgi he had carried close to his heart and fully savored the joy of conquest upon that frozen ground. Born in 1954, he began climbing at sixteen, and in 1982, when he summited Makalu (8,463m), the world’s fifth‑highest peak, his ascetic, seeker‑like approach to mountaineering began drawing public attention. In time, he became the first person to conquer the Three Poles and the Seven Summits, raising the banner of human triumph before the entire world—a feat that fills us with deep pride.
I paused to trace, even briefly, the icy mountains he trod, the brutal cold, the days when he wandered from one mountain to another unable to find direction, dragging legs numbed by exhaustion and frostbite. I thought of the storms that nearly claimed his life, the loneliness, hunger, regret, fear, and the battles with his own self. In his words—“Don’t ask why I strive to climb so high…”—spoken like a solitary confession, we glimpse the human instinct to reach toward the unknown.
His approach into that primordial emptiness is surely one of humanity’s greatest attempts. Only weeks ago, when a snowstorm paralyzed our entire city, we were reminded of how fragile human beings are before the forces of nature. And yet, humanity’s attempts to conquer nature continue across the world.
Even when we eat well, sleep well, and live in comfort, we find we cannot be fully satisfied. Even if someone were to claim perfect happiness in this world, that too would be incomplete and immature. Human wholeness and joy are gained little by little through hardship and adversity. Through risk‑laden pursuits—rock climbing, bungee jumping, ice‑wall climbing, hang‑gliding—people taste the thrill of conquest and the challenge of new worlds. Because of such quests, our lives take on the richness of self‑achievement. As long as human history continues, the challenge toward the new and the unknown will not cease.
Just as humanity challenges the natural world, so too is the challenge toward the world of truth and eternity difficult and demanding. To move daily toward an unseen summit is impossible without the help of the Holy Spirit; we feel this at every moment. Fierce winds of life and gentle breezes that tempt our weary bodies to rest both try to slow or halt our steps.
Scripture tells us that God created humanity and placed within us a longing for eternity (Ecclesiastes 3:11). Those who long for the soul—those who climb toward that summit with the rope of prayer—are already those who have attained victory in faith. Those who have tasted the freedom, joy, and peace found in truth never give up their ascent toward the summit until their final breath. Until they reach that summit of truth, rest is not permitted.
I too have fallen many times, stumbled, and trembled in fear and pain. I do not know how many more moments of discouragement await me, or how often I will feel tempted to abandon the climb. Yet I cannot hesitate, for the summit I must reach—my destination—is already set. Before the sun darkens, before my body grows frail, I cannot give up the rugged mountain pass I must cross.
Even today, people journey to the ends of the earth or climb icy cliffs to seek meaning and fulfillment in their lives. They pour their lives into the pursuit of purpose and challenge. Yet unless God grants the eyes to see, no one can discern whether the things we assign meaning to truly hold meaning at all.
And so, I resolve once more: in the battle toward eternity, I must not cease until the day I raise the flag of victory.
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