Daily Sauntering

From the moment a person leaves the mother’s womb, life becomes a continual experience of being separated from the ones we love. Perhaps this is because life itself is marked by constant change and movement.

I was not yet old enough to enter elementary school when this happened. My mother and I visited my maternal grandmother’s home in Gunsan, Jeolla Province. While we were there, my mother decided to visit some relatives who lived a little distance away, and she left me behind for a short while. During the day, my aunts and uncles doted on me, buying me treats and playing with me, so I hardly noticed my mother’s absence.

But when night fell, and even the small oil lamp was extinguished, I found myself lying on an unfamiliar pillow in a strange room. My body and heart began to fill with uneasiness. Eventually, unable to overcome the fear, I began to sniffle, then sob, and finally cry out loud. My startled aunts, uncles, and grandmother tried to comfort me, but nothing helped. I cried for my mother until exhaustion finally carried me into sleep. I still remember that night.

The simple fact that my mother was not beside me—this alone was emptiness, fear, and sorrow to my young heart. That brief separation, the first I had ever experienced, was a shock I could never forget.

From that moment until now, I have come to realize that our entire life—until the day we enter eternal life—is lived in a continual cycle of meeting and parting with those we love. Not only with people, but also with animals we raise, objects we use, environments we enjoy, and possessions we cherish. Nothing on this earth stays with us forever. Life is a revolving door of encounters and farewells, and with each turn we must build new bridges of love. This rhythm continues moment by moment until the day we leave this world. Today, I would like to reflect with you on this “aesthetics of parting and meeting” in Christ.

According to reports, about 20% of the U.S. population moves each year. The number of college students relocating for school alone is enormous. In our immigrant communities, although the rate of moving has improved since the early days, many still must leave familiar neighborhoods and churches for the sake of stability, children’s education, or business. Our own family, following my husband’s studies and ministry, packed and unpacked our belongings about five times during our eighteen years of immigrant life. Each time, the hardest and most painful part was saying goodbye to people.

When moving, we discover that not only those with whom we shared deep affection, but even those we were indifferent to—or had strained relationships with—were somehow tied to us by invisible cords of love. A human life, whether by choice or by circumstance, is lived in a continual sequence of new meetings and inevitable partings. Some farewells are permanent; others are temporary, for study or work. But sending off or leaving those we love is never pleasant. No matter how much practice we’ve had, parting always feels awkward and leaves deep wounds. And yet, amazingly, time always brings healing—though the scars remain.

Although this is not the typical moving season, in our Methodist tradition, pastoral appointments are officially announced at the annual conference in June. So beginning in early July, churches bustle with preparations to welcome new pastors and their families.

Recently, Rev. and Mrs. Searfoss—dear friends with whom we shared deep Christian fellowship—were suddenly appointed by the bishop to a church in Philadelphia. The news came so abruptly that we were all shocked, saddened, and unsettled. Watching the sorrow of the congregation they had served, I was reminded again of how precious it is simply to live alongside those we love.

We often fail to recognize the worth of those near us until we must say goodbye—whether through moving or through death. Only then does the empty space they leave behind feel unbearably large. And as always, we find ourselves regretting that we did not love more, understand more, or cherish more while we had the chance.

Last week, I wrote a letter to Mrs. Searfoss as we shared our farewell. I would like to share it with you now.

“To Mrs. Searfoss”

Dear Mrs. Searfoss, Today has come—the moment when we must pause the well of friendship and love we have been drawing from together. It saddens me that we cannot continue deepening that precious well.

When we first met, we quickly sensed that we were two people in need of comfort. Searching for a quiet place to talk, we ended up wandering through a busy shopping mall instead. Perhaps, deep inside, we longed to slip out of the role of “pastor’s wife” and become carefree teenage girls again, lost in a crowd of strangers.

We touched the fine fabrics in the department store, held dresses up to each other and giggled. We bought nothing, and we exchanged no special words of comfort, yet we returned home already comforted, carrying each other’s friendship in our hearts.

Since that day, we could read each other’s joys and burdens with just a glance—joys and sorrows that only pastor’s wives can truly understand. I still remember the happiness I felt when you received a full-time position and were promoted to Dean of Students at the university. Was that only six months ago? And yet, before you could fully savor that joy, you now must give it up because of your husband’s unexpected reassignment. How can I comfort the pain of such loss? And how many days must you lie awake, nursing the wounds of parting from the congregation you loved?

They say pastors must always be prepared for three things from the moment they are ordained: preaching, moving, and dying. What, then, must pastor’s wives be prepared for? One day, as I reflected on the lives of pastor’s wives, I realized: we must always be prepared to let go. To release our grip on material things, on honor, on relationships, on the things we love. A life that cannot cling or hold tightly—that is the life that resembles Christ. When He had nothing left to give humanity, He even surrendered His own body on the cross.

Now, dear friend, not only must we part from the friendship we shared, but you must also part from everything you loved nearby—the parsonage you kept so beautifully, the warm Christmas Eve dinners and honest conversations, the fresh cucumbers and tomatoes you brought each summer. All of these now move into the album of time.

But someone once said, “Saying goodbye is also saying hello to a future that holds new possibilities.” And indeed, new futures and possibilities have always come to us by crossing valleys of pain and sorrow. Like Abraham leaving his homeland, Jacob fleeing to his uncle’s house, Joseph being sold into Egypt, Moses journeying toward Canaan—God never handed them a detailed map. Instead, He built invisible faith within their hearts, and through that faith, He opened the doors of their future one by one.

Wherever you go, may you remember that you dwell in the presence of God. As you take this next step—another great act of letting go—I send you my love and respect. From your friend who loves you.

Dear listeners, To open a new future, we have been chosen as Christians and brought this far by God’s providence. To be a Christian is to walk toward an unknown future by faith. That is why our spiritual “partings and meetings” carry such profound meaning.

As 2 Corinthians 5:17 says, “If anyone is in Christ, he is a new creation; the old has gone, the new has come.” To be a new creation means continually saying farewell to the old and entering into new encounters with God’s truth.

Parting from the old always hurts, because our bodies and souls have grown comfortable there. Yet God could not leave Israel enslaved in Egypt forever. Through Moses, He commanded them to leave. But once in the wilderness, hungry and weary, they longed for the meat they had eaten as slaves and grumbled against Moses. Though they had left Egypt physically, their hearts remained bound there—and so they could not enter Canaan.

Our lives are a continual sequence of partings and meetings. Even Jesus, before ascending to heaven, enacted a painful farewell with His disciples. He led them to the vicinity of Bethany, lifted His hands to bless them, and instructed them to stay in the city until they were clothed with power. And as promised, He sent us the Holy Spirit—the Comforter, the Healer, the Counselor—who never leaves us.

If you are preparing to move this week, or facing a farewell, or entering a new environment, may the Holy Spirit’s comfort and guidance be with you. All these transitions unfold under God’s plan to lead us to our true home. Therefore, we can embrace every change with courage, joy, and hope.

— WanHee Yoon, July 1, 1998