(Letter from the Parsonage, Those Who Remained in the City, Story Five)
© WanHee Yoon, 1989
A new tenor soloist, Mr. Wendel Wohl, joined our church choir, which was made up mostly of elderly members in their seventies. He was a stylish gentleman of sixty-eight, slightly younger than the rest. For a long time, the tenor section had struggled under Mr. Dehler’s peculiar rhythm and disregard for rests—his unique tone keeping the choir director’s brow furrowed. Wendel’s arrival was a great turning point, raising the choir’s sound to an average standard. His tenor solos were superb, and whenever he sang during worship, his voice stirred deep emotion. Flowing through his seasoned voice, the sacred songs felt more like laments—echoes of human repentance and cries toward God that shook the souls of the congregation with a terrifying force.
He never missed Thursday evening choir practice. Sitting behind the sopranos, he would sometimes toss in a witty remark, turning tedious rehearsals into waves of laughter. Yet, I could not truly know who he was. Unlike Koreans who quickly reveal their personal stories, Americans often guard their private lives. So, for more than a year, I knew him only as a faithful choir member.
During the summer, when many members traveled, the choir took a two-month break. Weeks passed without even the brief conversations we shared on Thursdays. Then one Sunday morning, news came—Wendel had suffered a stroke. In a church of mostly elderly people, the illness or collapse of one member weighs heavily on everyone. Concern spread quickly, and prayers rose for his recovery.
Preparing to visit his hospital room, I wrote a prayer and cut three apricot-colored roses blooming beautifully in the garden, placing them in a slender vase. How comforting it is that flowers exist in this world! God, who knows human limits, always provides more than what we seek.
Together with Bob Dehler—the choir director and Wendel’s old friend—I went to North Shore University Hospital on Long Island, where Wendel was lying. I hoped through Bob to learn more about who Wendel really was. Bob’s story unfolded like this:
In his youth, Wendel sang with the New York Metropolitan Opera. There, he met a beautiful soprano and married her; they had three children. Their personalities were bold and free-spirited, but such a life brought many mistakes, especially in raising their children. Consumed by careers, fame, and glittering realities, they had little time to think of spiritual matters. Their children, raised amidst their parents’ excesses, grew up into lives of luxury, drugs, and accidents caused by alcohol.
Eventually, realizing their lives had gone astray, the couple sought religion. Sadly, the group they joined turned out to be a cult. Far from healing their souls or transforming their lives, it left them empty. Wendel even became a lay leader in the cult before finally leaving, only to struggle again with his children’s troubles. For a time, he worked as a high school music teacher, pouring himself into guiding troubled youth.
But tragedy struck. His eldest son, thirty-two years old, wasted by years of drugs and alcohol, hanged himself at home. By his body lay a book titled How to Commit a Successful Suicide. Parents who had chased after success and prestige now faced the utter futility of it all. His wife fell ill from stress and guilt, eventually separating from him.
Soon after, their second daughter’s marriage collapsed. Unable to endure her unfaithful husband, she divorced after four years, leaving her two young children with him. Returning home, she tried to start anew, but the longing for her children overwhelmed her. One day, after a brief reunion with them, she overdosed on drugs in a hotel room. She was only twenty-nine.
As Wendel’s youth faded and strength waned, a bitter wind met him at life’s twilight. Self-mockery haunted him. His soul, lonely as a child crying in the wilderness, was overwhelmed by regret. If only he had recognized earlier the true worth of life—not on stage, but in the collision of souls in real living. Tears of repentance surged in waves. They say the tears of parents who lose a child never dry. That pain is fierce enough to dry bones and blood. How much more when two young lives are lost to suicide within three years!
I was shocked to realize I had been blind to the iceberg of sorrow within him. I, too, had been a bystander to his grief. Where had my prayers gone? I enjoyed the forms and rituals of religion—was I truly faithful? I felt I could never again casually greet anyone with, “How are you? Fine, thank you.” For had he not always answered me that way?
Yet to know another person—truly know them—is a beautiful thing. When we discover the bruised, hidden words in another’s soul, we begin to taste the burning intensity of love for humanity. While I gush over the beauty of the sun, others may cry out that its light presses down like a crushing wall. Until we truly know one another, we only claim the sun as radiant. But once we feel the weight of the sun on another’s heart, we see its two sides.
The hospital’s air conditioner struck cool against my sweaty back. Crimson tiles lit up the halls with brightness, unlike the heavy atmosphere of other hospitals. As we approached the ICU, I saw two women leaning against a wall outside Wendel’s room. Bob’s pace quickened—he rushed forward, embracing them.
“Mrs. Yoon, this is Wendel’s wife, and this is his daughter!”
Bob’s face was flushed with joy. Though meeting them for the first time, I felt as if I had long known them. I recalled how nurses had wondered aloud the night before whether this patient had no family. Now I understood the pricelessness of truth revealed.
Wendel’s face was swollen beyond recognition. At times he opened his eyes and glanced at faces around him, only to close them again.
“Honey, do you know who I am? If you hear my voice, please squeeze my hand,” his wife pleaded desperately. His hand did not move.
On the drive back, I kept turning my head toward the hospital, toward his window. Against the heavy walls of the ward, blue sky rippled like waves. Suddenly, I seemed to hear his tenor solo, streaming through the shut windows. His song resounded like the final echo cast between cliffs—unceasing, inside my soul. Shame bent me low. Human indifference, shallow encounters, my own weakness, the vast distance to my neighbor…
I, who once sat comfortably in the front pew enjoying his lament—what excuse could I possibly offer before the Lord’s sorrowful gaze?
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