Daily Sauntering

“Cricket on My Window”

Posted on July 12, 2026 by TaeHun Yoon 윤 태헌 尹太憲

Who are you, little voyager of the green world?

Out of the roaring highway you came, out of the bright rush of June, out of the invisible fields and grasses beyond the guardrails, crossing the torrent of speed without hesitation.

I saw you there—

not in a meadow,

not among leaves,

but upon the moving glass of my automobile, while the road unrolled beneath meand the engines of the age thundered in every direction.

How steadfast you were!

The wind pressed against you, the great current of air that would sweep away dust, paper, and the loose thoughts of men—

yet you remained.

You climbed the window beside me, lifting one slender leg after another, carrying your small republic of life through the vast machinery of the world.

They tell me your name—a Smyrnean Bush-Cricket, wanderer from distant regions, dark-bodied, green-striped, arriving in Korea before the full heat of summer.

But I knew another name for you.

Courage.

Persistence.

The refusal of life to surrender.

And I, an old traveler myself, crossing my own seasons, felt kinship with your fragile body holding fast against forces larger than itself.

O little companion of the highway, you rode beside me for a brief eternity.

You taught no sermon, offered no doctrine, wrote no book—

yet your presence spoke.

It said: Hold on.

Move forward.

Trust the hidden strength placed within you.

The wind is strong, the journey uncertain, the world immense—

and still, walk.

So I watched you, and loved you.

And as the miles opened before us, I lifted a prayer into the moving air:

May the same mystery that guides migrating birds, opens flowers to the sun, and carries rivers toward the sea,

watch over you.

May your small life flourish.

May your vision of the world remain bright.

May love prove stronger than the wind.

And may all travelers, whether borne on wings, on legs, or on roads of asphalt,

find their way home.

— TaeHun Yoon, June 16, 2026

Posted in Poetry | Tagged fiction, life, Poetry, travel, writing | Leave a comment

“Traveling”

Posted on July 12, 2026 by TaeHun Yoon 윤 태헌 尹太憲

Early summer.

I sit upon a bench before Sungsan Art-hall Grand Theater in Changwon, Korea,

waiting, listening,

already traveling before a single note is sung.

Not by airplane,

not by train,

not by the crowded arteries of cities—

but by music.

From Rocky Hill, Tennessee,

to Seoul,

from the restless rivers of humanity flowing through KTX stations,

to this hall filled with expectation,

I have traveled.

And farther still—

from memory to presence,

from anxiety to surrender,

from death toward life.

O Johannes Brahms!

How mysterious your footsteps remain,

crossing centuries to arrive quietly at my heart.

First came Schicksalslied,

The Song of Destiny,

its chorus suspended between human fragility

and transcendent peace.

The orchestra unfolded

like spring sunlight upon a mountain valley,

clear and tender,

and I found myself standing naked before my own fate,

without disguise,

without argument,

without escape.

There,

before the music,

I became simply a mortal man.

Then rose

A German Requiem—

not a prayer for the dead,

but a blessing for the living.

Not darkness,

but consolation.

Not judgment,

but embrace.

Its seven movements flowed

like seven rivers through the soul,

each one washing away another layer of fear,

each one inviting honesty,

the difficult honesty

that only grief and grace can summon.

I heard within it

a sermon grander than words,

a prayer deeper than doctrine,

a hand placed gently upon the shoulder

of those who walk toward their final horizon.

Did not E. Hanslick speak truly?

A masterpiece warmed by the depth of the soul,

illuminated by noble vision,

purified by sublime beauty.

And tonight,

I believed him.

Then came the convincing and rather exquisite voice

of baritone Samuel Youn.

“Lord, make me to know mine end.”

The words entered me

like a bell sounding through a silent valley.

I thought of my years.

I thought of my journey.

I thought of all that remains unfinished,

and all that has already been given.

For a moment

death stood nearby,

not as an enemy,

but as a companion reminding me

to live truthfully.

Then the soprano, Je-ni Kim,

lifted her heavenly voice:

“Ye now therefore have sorrow.”

And sorrow itself seemed transformed.

The wounded were comforted.

The weary were gathered.

The despairing were reminded

that grief is not the final language of existence.

O magnificent hall!

This was more than a commemorative concert

for the Month of Patriots and Veterans.

It became a sanctuary.

A place where consolation and hope

were offered freely

to every listening heart.

Around me,

tears shimmered in the eyes of strangers.

When the final notes dissolved into silence,

the audience rose together—

a long standing ovation,

waves upon waves of gratitude,

rolling through the night of Changwon.

And there,

before conductor Lim HanKuy,

I watched prayer become motion.

From the tips of his hands

flowed not merely music,

but mercy.

Not merely sound,

but hope.

And as the chorus, orchestra, and soloists breathed together,

I too was carried along—

traveling,

always traveling—

from fear to trust,

from ending to beginning,

from death

toward life.

— TaeHun Yoon, 6/19/2026

May be an image of clarinet and text that says '호국보훈의 달 기념 창원시립합창단 창원시립한창단제201회정기연주회 제201회 정기연주회 The Subscriptian Concetto Changwan City CityChai Chair 사인트레시 자원트 지휘 임한귀 임한귀예술김독 (슬김독 소프리노 김제니 위로와 희망의 노래 브람스, 독일 레퀴엠 프로그램 운명의 노래 Schicksabled Op,54 독일 레퀴엠 Ein deutschas Requiem 0p.45 마타 A Ein 베리튼 사무열 묻 deutsches 창원시틴교한악단 2026년 6월 18일(목)오후 7시 7시30분 성산아트홀 대극장 Thursday. lure 18th, 2025 at 30pm ungsan Arthal and Theater 침원시림환창단 메약모든 월5일금) 10:00 공연문의| 297-5832 동림시인매음전·의 퍼보세요 OMLCOr 침원시틴배술단 미연터동 업새여비이용을 시모의바랍니 .190 보원트레식'

Posted in Poetry | Tagged faith, grief, life, Poetry, prayer, writing | Leave a comment

“Ascending Namsan”

Posted on July 12, 2026 by TaeHun Yoon 윤 태헌 尹太憲

At last,

I climbed Namsan.

For the first time.

All my life

I had longed for this mountain.

And Namsan welcomed me

as though it had been waiting

for ages beyond counting,

through millions of years of stone and sky.

When King Taejo,

Yi Seong-gye,

moved the capital to Hanyang,

this mountain became

the heart of a nation.

How beautiful it is.

The tallest tower of the modern city

stand not in pride,

but quietly,

cradled by gentle mountains

that surround them

like a painted folding screen.

The clamor of the great metropolis

seems to sink

to the floor of a distant sea,

while above,

a deeper silence remains.

And the mountain spoke:

Welcome, my friend.

Why have you come only now?

I know the storms you have endured.

I know the years that shaped your heart.

The long road has prepared you.

Come and rest.

How could I fail to know

the richness hidden

within your ancient breast?

Your heart,

once pierced by foreign powers,

once nailed by the ambitions of empires,

once drenched in tears of blood,

still beats beneath

these blue forests.

Only yesterday,

it seems,

cannons shattered your crown

and scattered your people.

Only yesterday,

children crossed frozen rivers

upon their mothers’ backs,

fleeing through winter

toward uncertain horizons.

And yet,

through every bend of history’s river,

love endured.

Though divided North and South,

though brothers accuse brothers,

the blood remembers.

Love flows deeper

than borders.

Brothers may quarrel,

for brothers grow together in struggle,

yet the ancient bond remains.

Our people scattered

to distant nations,

selling their labor,

giving their lives,

building homes

beneath foreign skies.

Now let us become

a compassionate people,

reaching out

to struggling neighbors,

sharing the blessings

hard won through sacrifice.

Let us build

a greater world together.

At the Palgak Pavilion,

the drums begin.

The rhythm rises.

The dancers sway.

Deong-sil, deong-sil—

the joyful pulse

of earth and heaven.

The sound circles the mountain

like a festival of life.

And standing high

upon the summit of Namsan,

I see the world gathered before me—

Alaska,

the Smoky Mountains,

Mexico,

Brazil,

New Zealand,

Africa,

Europe,

Asia—

all drawn together

beneath one sky.

Come,

let us meet here,

on this mountain of vision.

Let us become

the Three-Legged Crow

of a new millennium,

the messenger of wisdom,

the guardian of peace.

Let us spread our wings

like the albatross,

crossing oceans,

crossing borders,

crossing old divisions.

And let us fly—

toward a thousand years

of peace,

prosperity,

and the shared destiny

of all humankind.

*Namsan is located in the heart of Seoul, the capital of South Korea.

— TaeHun Yoon, 6/22/2026

May be an image of fire tower, cablecar, skyscraper, the CN Tower and cloud

May be an image of ‎the CN Tower, the Reichstag Dome and ‎text that says '‎PARIS FRANCE 9,089.58 LONDON UNITED KINGDOM ه km BERLIN N BI‎'‎‎

May be an image of skyscraper and text that says 'PYONGYANG NORTH 246.9 km'

May be an image of skyscraper, cloud and Victoria Peak

Posted in Poetry | Tagged fantasy, fiction, Poetry, travel, writing | Leave a comment

“Passing By”

Posted on July 12, 2026 by TaeHun Yoon 윤 태헌 尹太憲

I spent a day in Seoul,

changing from bus to subway,

following directions

toward Entrance 2 of Line 2.

Then my eyes fell on

a small street garden

beneath a forty‑story tower of glass.

A single white lily smiled at me.

Out of season—

late June, early summer—

yet there she stood.

“Are you passing by as well?”

she asked.

Of course I was.

“So am I.

We all are, aren’t we?

I’ll be gone next week,

unnoticed by anyone—

except you.”

Why me?

“Because you saw me.

You’ll never forget me.

I’m in you now,

and you in me.

When I disappear,

I become part of you.

And someday,

you may become a lily

on a street in your own community.”

Haven’t we already spoken without speaking?

There is no need for goodbye.

Without gesture or word,

we have already exchanged something

beyond time and place.

“I think you love me,” she said.

I think we no longer need

you or I.

“I see you seeing me

on some unknown mountain,

blooming wild.”

Yes—

and in that freedom

beauty becomes complete.

“Enjoy your moment of passing by,”

she whispered,

“and be happy

wherever your passing takes you.”

– TaeHun Yoon, 6/22/2026

May be an image of white lily and street

Posted in Poetry | Leave a comment

“Half a Century Later”

Posted on July 12, 2026 by TaeHun Yoon 윤 태헌 尹太憲

Time does not pass.

It settles quietly

like dust upon an old hymnal,

like sunlight resting

on photographs

whose faces still wait

in a fading frame.

And after fifty years—

or perhaps only yesterday—

five friends gathered again

by the river of memory.

One came for the first time,

stepping out of absence

as though opening a door

long closed

yet never forgotten.

We spoke.

Of church-boy days.

Of summer Bible schools

and mountain retreats.

Of teachers

we feared,

admired,

and occasionally mocked.

Of games that lasted

until dusk swallowed the field.

Of girls

whose names fluttered

through our hearts

like shy birds.

The conversation

did not move forward.

It moved deeper.

Down old hallways

where childhood still lived,

waiting patiently

for someone to call its name.

Fragments returned.

A laugh.

A nickname.

A small hurt.

The smell of rain

on the churchyard earth.

The ringing of a bell

on a Sunday morning.

Black-and-white memories

slowly gathered color again,

as though an unseen Artist

had touched an aging canvas

with fresh light.

There was laughter first.

Then tears.

For what survives time

is not achievement,

nor success,

nor the stories we tell others.

What survives

is recognition.

“You were there.”

“You remember.”

“You still know my name.”

And forgiveness came quietly.

No sermon.

No explanation.

Only the gentle grace

that arrives

when old friends

sit together long enough.

The boys remained.

Hidden beneath silver hair.

Hidden beneath careful steps.

Hidden beneath the dignity

of grandfathers.

The boys remained.

So we walked beside the river.

Walked and paused.

Talked and remembered.

Entered a café

for coffee and ice cream,

as though such simple gifts

could hold back evening.

The river moved beside us.

The years moved within us.

And our walking,

our talking,

our laughing,

became a prayer

without words.

A liturgy of friendship.

A sacrament of memory.

No promises were made.

No future reunion arranged.

No ceremony concluded the day.

Only smiles.

Only embraces.

Only grateful hearts.

For some bonds,

forged in childhood,

survive every season,

every distance,

every silence.

And as evening gathered

along the water,

a question lingered

among the shadows:

What more is needed

when seventy-seven years

have taught us

the poverty of possession

and the abundance of presence?

Perhaps nothing.

Perhaps only this:

a shared afternoon

in the valley of wrinkles,

where old friends sat together,

and time,

for a little while,

laid down its burden

and let us be children again.

And that,

surely,

was enough.

It becomes a birthday for us all.

— TaeHun Yoon, 6/23/2026 (Edited)

May be an image of lake and text that says 'RENU MEORI'

May be an image of water hyacinth and lake

May be an image of one or more people, segway, road, street and monument

May be an image of text that says 'い宝店雀'

Posted in Poetry | Tagged fiction, life, love, Poetry, short-story, writing | Leave a comment

“The Ranger Platoon of Love”

Posted on July 8, 2026 by TaeHun Yoon 윤 태헌 尹太憲

I sing the red-capped Master Sergeant,

chief instructor of the Rangers on Gamaksan,

whose voice once rolled through the mountains

like thunder among the pines,

whose boots struck the ridges

and taught young men

how to climb fear,

how to cross the impossible,

how to return.

I sing him now,

though he rests beneath quiet grass

in the National Cemetery,

his campaigns folded into history,

his medals sleeping in the earth.

Yet no life ends.

The mountain remembers him.

The wind remembers him.

The young soldiers he hardened

carry his shadow still.

Long ago,

he looked upon me

and saw only a slender private,

a young man following love

up the steep trail—

following the bright-eyed woman

who would become my wife,

his cherished sister-in-law.

I was uncertain then,

a recruit of both the army and the heart.

And the years marched on.

Decades unfurled their banners.

From the high country of eternity

he has watched us.

He has watched the son,

once commander of a Navy patrol boat,

standing firm against restless seas,

now guiding others

through the currents of commerce and responsibility.

He has watched the daughter,

beloved and strong,

building her own way through the world,

and beside her

the tenor husband,

lifting songs into the air

where hearts gather and listen.

He has watched the grandson,

newly returned from Air Force service,

bearing the invisible marks

that every generation leaves

upon the next.

He has watched the grandmother,

the woman he treasured,

still holding the family together

with the quiet authority of love.

And I see them all now,

gathered around one table,

laughing,

telling stories,

breaking bread,

the years forgotten,

the generations mingling

like rivers entering one sea.

O comrades,

what is a family

but another platoon?

Not assembled by command,

not driven by rank,

but formed by trust,

by sacrifice,

by the stubborn refusal

to leave one another behind.

Here is our company.

Here is our regiment.

Here are our colors.

Love is our discipline.

Faith is our training.

Hope is our field manual.

And when life throws us

against cliffs that tremble,

against storms that test our footing,

against the long marches

through grief and uncertainty,

we move forward.

We lift one another.

We complete the mission.

For we are Rangers still.

Not merely of mountain and battlefield,

but of affection,

of loyalty,

of memory.

Yes, we are the Ranger Platoon

of love and belief,

marching together

through time,

through loss,

through joy,

and answering every roll call

with the same enduring cry:

Present.

Still present.

Together.

— TaeHun Yoon, 6/24/2026

May be an image of one or more people, sushi and text that says 'SAPPOR'

May be an image of one or more people, sushi and text that says '72.300 SAPPOP'

Posted in Poetry | Tagged faith, fantasy, fiction, life, Poetry, writing | Leave a comment

“God Who Stretches Out His Hand”

Posted on July 8, 2026 by TaeHun Yoon 윤 태헌 尹太憲

Last Sunday, pastor delivered his message on God’s stretching out His hands over us.

The Church is celebrating her birth-year on Deuteronomy 8:2, “Remember these forty years—the grace, the glory, and the guidance of God.”

Remember these forty years.

Not the number itself.

Remember the years

when grace walked among us

wearing the names of ordinary people;

the seasons

when tears and hymns

held one another by the shoulders;

remember the pilgrimage

by which God,

stretching out His hand,

nurtured one community

through the wilderness.

It began

with a single seed—

a small sanctuary

in Dongpangyo,

Bundang, Seongnam.

There,

a flame arose.

Not the fire of human ambition,

but the flame

of the burning bush

that Moses beheld

on Mount Horeb.

The fire burned,

yet the bush

was never consumed.

Even today,

after rebuilding the new Church building

in Seopankyo

the Holy Spirit

calls the Church

through that same fire.

For forty years,

knees met the earth

before every dawn;

songs of praise

opened the heavens.

Children grew

to become shepherds.

Young people

were sent into the world.

Missionaries

crossed borders.

Physicians

touched wounded lives.

Believers

repaired forgotten country churches,

and shared

God’s table

with hungry neighbors.

Laughter

became playgrounds.

Prayer

became streets and alleys.

Tears

became worship.

There were days

when the world itself

closed its doors.

The sanctuary stood empty,

yet the house of God

was never empty.

Beyond every screen,

the Holy Spirit

kindled fire

within human hearts.

Even a pandemic

could not bind

the hand of God.

His hand

remained

forever outstretched.

He sent pastors.

He raised new servants.

He prepared

the next generation.

Beyond one people,

toward all nations,

He opened

the way of the Gospel.

Now,

as we prepare

to celebrate

our fortieth anniversary,

we look back.

But God

looks ahead.

That a congregation

which began with two hundred people

may one day

embrace ten thousand in faith

is not merely

a human dream.

It is to become

a wider vessel of love

for the Kingdom of God.

The Church

is not a building.

It is

the two hands of God

walking

into the world.

With those hands

He wipes away tears,

binds up wounds,

lifts the lost,

and plants hope.

Once more,

I hear

that ancient voice

echoing

from Mount Horeb:

“Take off your sandals.”

“I am sending you.”

And once again,

He calls

the name of Flame Methodist Church

into the winds

of a new age.

O Flame,

remain

no longer

only upon the altar.

Light the city.

Warm every home.

Become,

for the world,

the fresh wind

of the Holy Spirit.

Forty years

are not the end.

They are

a new beginning—

as God,

stretching out His hand,

leads yet another wilderness

into

the Promised Land.

— TaeHun Yoon, 6/25/2026

May be an image of one or more people, the Reichstag Dome and skyscraper

Posted in Poetry | Tagged bible, christianity, faith, god, jesus, Poetry | Leave a comment

“The Divine Shadow of Heaven”

Posted on July 8, 2026 by TaeHun Yoon 윤 태헌 尹太憲

Three years had flowed away

before I sought Youngseol,

the painter Seo Sang-Hwan in Busan,

my old companion upon the road of beauty.

Before,

I found him in his gallery,

surrounded by canvases breathing,

by books stacked like seasons of prayer,

and there my longing rested.

Today

I walked instead toward his home.

No—

I walked toward time itself.

Ah!

How strange the heart becomes

before departure.

As I prepared to leave Korea,

something within me refused farewell,

pulling me,

on an ordinary weekend,

toward his door—

His gracious wife welcomed us.

Once

there were four of us

sharing laughter around one table.

Long before that,

only two—

the painter

and myself—

young enough to believe

the road stretched forever.

Now he sits

like the shadow heaven casts

upon an aging earth.

He says,

“Art is born in the field of living,

searching for the form of the Heaven.”

Yes—

I remember.

From the Via Dolorosa,

where his woodcuts first learned

the grain of suffering,

to these luminous holy icons

where light itself

finds its opposite

only to embrace it—

his entire life

has been one endless pilgrimage

toward the Face of God.

Painting.

Painting again.

Painting until breath disappears,

until consciousness falls away,

until only the hand remains,

moving—

as though guided

by another Breath.

O language beyond human language!

O speech belonging to God alone!

O mysterious spring

beneath consciousness itself,

where mountains dissolve into nature

and nature awakens again

inside the searching soul!

There walks the pilgrim,

forever pursuing

the form hidden within creation.

His joy

is never possession.

It is possibility.

He paints,

not God Himself,

but the shadow

God leaves upon the world.

Life itself

is beauty.

Beauty itself

is the stubborn labor

of becoming the self

created in God’s own longing.

How fiercely he has struggled

to resemble only the Holy One!

Truth.

Life.

Beauty.

The self.

Not four separate words—

one body,

one mystery,

revealed across

more than half a century

of faithful paint

upon waiting canvas.

His work has become

transparent devotion,

reverence made visible,

silence clothed with color.

Who among us

can truly follow

such a seeker?

Who can endure

such holy hunger?

Youngseol—暎雪

approaching ninety years

beneath these Korean skies—

one day

the Breath that first awakened him

will call him home.

He will leave us

without noise,

like evening light

slipping beyond the mountain.

Yet he shall not disappear.

His countless sacred images,

his paintings

whose beauty chills the soul

with longing,

their deep contemplative stillness,

their marriage

of painting color

and eternal light—

these will continue breathing.

The Creator’s own breath

will remain within them.

And whenever we stand

before one of his canvases,

we shall discover

that the old pilgrim

has not gone at all.

He has become

another breath

within our own.

— TaeHun Yoon, 6/27/2026

* The overall shape is composed of the bell at the top symbolizing “good news,” the fish on the left and right representing fellowship, and the praying person at the very bottom. When viewed as a whole, it forms the shape of a cross.

This is the explanation given by Youngseol about the necklace he personally made and has worn throughout his life.

May be an illustration of harp and text that says '서 한국 이맛이므 อ .！」キロペン南 귀을 ICON)OT しょな人 상 환 물서 口顧顧顧 경 展 AE- blthendtac.ion 미광화량 미광화랑기획초대 기획초대 2017.2.10-2.25 10 -2.25 25 2017.2. 2. 전시 관합시간 평임오전 10시30분- 오후7시, 매주 힘요일은 휴분입니다. RAUO 48284 부산광역시 수영구 광남로 72번길 2/(인작품) TEL L051.758.2247 http://mkart.co'

Posted in Poetry | Tagged bible, christianity, faith, god, jesus, Poetry | Leave a comment

“Farewell”

Posted on July 8, 2026 by TaeHun Yoon 윤 태헌 尹太憲

A month—

no longer than the turning

of one page

in the book of heaven—

yet long enough

for my soul

to remember

its first language.

Tomorrow

the wide-winged airplane

will lift me once more

over the Pacific,

back

to the green hills

of Tennessee,

where another home

waits quietly,

its doors already open,

its trees

remembering my name.

Between these two homes

I have lived

forty-six years.

Long enough

for one country

to become memory,

and another

to become daily bread.

Long enough

to discover

that belonging

is never divided—

only multiplied.

When I first departed,

I thought

I was leaving Korea.

Now I know

I have carried her

like hidden seed

inside every season,

inside every prayer,

inside every poem

I have ever written.

This time

I did not hurry.

I let the nation

walk beside me.

The swift KTX,

its silver body

piercing mountains

like an arrow of light.

The subways,

flowing beneath Seoul, DaeGu, Busan

like unseen rivers.

Village buses

climbing quiet roads

where grandmothers

still wave

toward passing strangers.

Every journey

became a conversation

between my footsteps

and the land

that first received them.

How kind

this country

has become

to old knees.

Escalators

lifting tired pilgrims.

Elevators

honoring

the unhurried dignity

of age.

Comfort,

once unimaginable,

now offered

without words.

Yet every blessing

carries

its own shadow.

Children

walking together,

each alone

inside the blue glow

of a small screen

to gather in an imaginable small village.

Faces

bright with light,

hungry

for one another.

Crowded streets,

quiet hearts.

At Busan Station

voices called

for passengers,

not unlike fishermen

casting nets

into uncertain water.

Even prosperity

must labor.

Even abundance

knows

the weight

of tomorrow.

I returned

to Sinchon.

To Nogosan

where I was born.

To streets

that no longer

recognized my footsteps.

Nothing

had disappeared.

Everything

had changed.

Perhaps

that is

how memory

protects love—

by allowing places

to become

more beautiful

than time

can preserve.

At Taejongdae

the cliffs

stood unmoved

before restless waves.

At Seoraksan

the pines

still prayed

their wordless psalms.

The sea at Sokcho

spoke

the same ancient language

it spoke

before my birth.

Creation

does not forget

the names

God first whispered.

Everywhere

I met

the nations.

Languages

crossing streets

like migrating birds.

New citizens

calling Korea

their own.

And I,

born beneath

this very sky,

returned

holding

only a resident card,

smiling

at the gentle humor

of history.

Home,

too,

can become

a country

one visits

with gratitude.

Politicians

still argue.

Boundaries

still remember

old wounds.

History

still limps.

But beneath

the noise,

God continues

the patient work

of resurrection.

Ashes

become harvest.

War

becomes hymn.

Broken people

become

living stones.

Tomorrow

I will close

my suitcase.

A few books.

A few gifts.

Summer clothes

holding

the fragrance

of Korean rain.

Kimchi.

Rice.

Soup.

The taste

of my mother’s kitchen—

still warm

inside memory,

still nourishing

a son

who never truly left.

Nothing

is heavy,

except gratitude.

Again

I become

a traveler.

One home

behind me.

One home

before me.

The road itself

becoming

my address.

The sky

my oldest companion.

The grace of God

my passport.

Farewell,

beloved homeland.

Do not keep me

only among those

who departed.

Remember me

among those

who returned

again

and again,

because love

always learns

the road home.

When another season

ripens

upon these mountains,

and another wind

crosses

the Pacific,

we shall meet

without explanation.

For every farewell

is only

love

taking

the longer road

back home.

— TaeHun Yoon, 6/29/2026,

On the eve of my departure, I spent a quiet hour at Dok DaBang —Eagle—the coffee house where my friends and I gathered after church throughout the late 1960s and early 1970s. Sitting in Sinchon with my lifelong friend WanHee, beside Yonsei University and just across from Changchun Methodist Church where we were married, I let the soft drift of classical music fill the room. In this very afternoon, the Presidential National Briefing came over the speakers, announcing Korea’s plan to advance its Three Major Mega-Projects: Semiconductors, Physical AI & Robotics, and AI Data Centers. It was a gentle reminder that even as I prepared to leave once more, my homeland was already imagining the shape of its future.

May be an image of ‎text that says '‎חנעו IAJAGALCI AJ GALCHI‎'‎

May be an image of American purple gallinule

May be an image of Victoria Peak and skyscraper

May be an image of hat, cloud, Victoria Peak and text

May be an image of cloud, skyscraper and Victoria Peak

May be an image of Tokyo Tower and the CN Tower

Posted in Poetry | Tagged faith, life, love, Poetry, writing | Leave a comment

“Can You Sing of Hope?”

Posted on July 8, 2026 by TaeHun Yoon 윤 태헌 尹太憲

– A Faith Epic Woven from the Story of Bishop Yong-Jae Jun

Can you sing of hope?

Not when fields shimmer with harvest,

nor when every table is filled,

but when winter strips the earth bare,

when dust rises like forgotten prayers,

when heaven itself seems silent.

Can you sing then?

I hear a voice.

Not the voice of one person,

but the breathing of generations.

A grandfather sings

from the darkness of a well.

No choir surrounds him.

Only heaven listens.

His hymn rises

through cold stone walls,

through suffering,

through faith that refuses to die.

I hear the oldest aunt.

She waters tomorrow

with tears and sweat.

Before anyone called them miracles,

her prayers had already become flowers.

Then comes the year 1905.

A boy of sixteen

hears the Gospel

through the faithful ministry

of Missionary Sharp.

A single seed

enters one young heart.

It will become

a forest.

He walks through

Gongju Youngmyung School,

Paichai,

Hyupsung Theological Seminary,

gathering

not diplomas,

but living seeds.

In Wonsan,

at Lucy Girls’ School,

he teaches the Word

for twenty-four faithful years.

Young women

carry the Gospel home.

Some become mothers.

Some become teachers.

Some become servants of Christ.

Missionaries come.

Missionaries leave.

Some die of fever.

But the Gospel

never departs.

It simply finds

another faithful hand.

Among his students

walks Chae Yong-shin,

whose life would later bloom

through Evergreen Tree.

Among his companions

stands Cho Byung-ok,

who would help shape

a newborn nation.

Then this son rises—

Pastor Hee-Gyun Jun.

Liberation comes.

Joy is brief.

Soon,

the Korean War

splits one people

against themselves.

Behind the walls

of Seodaejeon Prison,

one hundred three believers

are driven away

by retreating North Korean soldiers.

Gunfire.

Silence.

Bodies disappear

beneath dark water.

But martyrdom

never writes

the final sentence.

The blood remembers.

The Church remembers.

The Holy Spirit remembers.

Life begins again.

Thirty-three grandchildren

grow from one faithful root.

Twelve become pastors.

Two become pastors’ wives.

Among them

stands the eldest daughter,

Jin Jun,

who offers her life

to the Korean Monastic Movement.

Stone by stone,

prayer by prayer,

she builds a monastery,

not merely with bricks,

but with silence,

hospitality,

and unceasing prayer.

As a young woman

she breathes faith

in Wonsan Namchon Church.

She listens

to the revival preaching

of Pastor Jae-Hun Yoo.

Each sermon

falls like burning coals

upon her waiting heart.

Again,

history demands surrender.

Bow.

Compromise.

Forget.

But faith chooses

another road.

Leaving.

Walking.

Trusting.

Exile.

Return.

Church.

Monastery.

Refugees.

Fields reclaimed

by weary hands.

Morning prayers

rising like mist in the nation

from mountain valleys.

The fire continues.

Another grandson,

First pastor out of thirty three grands

Yong-Jae Jun,

inherits

not privilege,

but holy responsibility.

The years gather quietly.

Then,

the fire burns again.

In 1986,

a house church.

Kneeling prayer.

In 1992,

upon the wild grasses

of Seopan-gyo,

another beginning.

Later,

Dongpan-gyo.

New sanctuaries rise,

not first from concrete,

but from hearts

set ablaze

by the Holy Spirit.

The flame

passes

from one generation

to another.

Then comes

July 2013.

The Methodist Church

calls for a captain.

Yong-Jae Jun

accepts

not an honor,

but a cross.

“I will offer my whole life,

that God may look upon

the Church

with delight.”

An elder, Sung-Do Kim, blesses him:

“Be the captain.

Let truth

be your compass.

Read the times

with wisdom.

See farther

than your own generation.

Guard relationships.

Bridge the Church

and the world.

Serve faithfully.

Then

God will perform

His miracles.”

O Korea.

O America.

O every nation

still searching

for hope—

Do you hear?

This is not merely

the story

of one family.

It is the story

of faith

walking across generations.

The grandfather’s hymn.

The mother’s tears.

The martyr’s blood.

The monastery’s silence.

The refugee’s prayer.

The pastor’s knees.

The bishop’s willing heart.

Together

they become

one everlasting song.

And the song

still asks us—

Can you sing of hope?

Not after victory.

Not after peace.

Not after certainty.

But now—

while history still bleeds,

while the road

remains unfinished,

while Christ

still walks quietly

among ordinary people.

Yes.

We will sing.

Because hope

is born

where faith kneels.

Where love

refuses to surrender.

Where one generation

places the living fire

into the hands

of the next.

Listen.

The hymn still rises

from the well,

from the prison,

from the monastery,

from the refugee road,

from the mountain chapel,

from the crowded city,

from every faithful heart.

Its melody

crosses oceans.

Its light

crosses generations.

Its name

is Christ.

And therefore,

we sing hope.

For our history

has always been—

and shall remain—

a song of hope.

— TaeHun Yoon, July 6, 2026

Note: Rev. Jun Yong‑jae, bishop of the Central Conference, was elected as the president of the Korean Methodist Church (KMC) bishop’s council at the 30th General Assembly on July 8, 2013. He led the normalization of the denomination, which had been in a state of dysfunction for five years.