A RIVER OF HEART FLOWS WITH TEARS
Between Fear and Inspiration
that becoming a scientist, even if it led to my winning a Nobel Prize,
would be a way for me to wipe away the tears of suffering people.
I wanted to become a person who could take away the tears that
flowed from people’s eyes and the sorrow that was in their hearts. When
I was lying in the forest listening to the songs of the birds, I would think,
“The world needs to be made as warm and tender as those songs. I should
become someone who makes people’s lives as fragrant as flowers.” I didn’t
know what career I should pursue to accomplish that, but I became convinced
that I should be a person who could give happiness to people.
When I was ten our family converted to Christianity by the grace
of Great-Uncle Yun Guk Moon, who was a minister and led a fervent
life of faith. From then on, I attended church faithfully, without ever
missing a week. If I arrived at service even a little late, I would be so
ashamed that I could not even raise my face. I don’t know what I could
have understood at such a young age to inspire me to be this way, but
God was already a huge presence in my life. I was spending more and
more time wrestling with questions dealing with life and death, and the
suffering and sorrows of human existence.
When I was twelve, I witnessed my great-grandfather’s grave being
moved. Normally, only adults in the clan would be allowed to attend
such an occasion, but I wanted very much to see for myself what happened
to people after they died. I eventually persuaded my parents to
allow me to come along. When the grave was dug up and I saw his
remains, I was overcome with shock and fear. While the adults opened
the grave with solemn ceremony, all I saw was a scrawny skeleton. There
was no trace of the features my father and mother had described to me.
There was only the hideous sight of white bones.
It took me a while to get over the shock of seeing my great-grandfather’s
bones. I said to myself, “Great-grandfather must have looked just
like us. Does this mean my parents, too, will turn into just a bunch of
white bones after they die? Is this what will happen to me when I die?
Everyone dies, but after we die, do we just lie there unable to think
about anything?” I couldn’t get these questions out of my head.
Around that same time, a number of strange events occurred in our
home. I have a vivid memory of one in particular. Each time our family
wove cloth, we would take the snippets of thread from the spinning
wheel and save them in an earthenware jar until we had enough to make
a bolt of cloth. The cloth we made from these snippets, called yejang,
was a special cloth used when a child in the family was getting married.
One night, these snippets were found scattered all over the branches of
an old chestnut tree in a neighboring village. They made the tree look
like it had turned white. We couldn’t understand who would have taken
the snippets from the jar and carried them all the way to the chestnut
tree, which was quite a distance from our home, and then spread them
all over the tree. It didn’t seem like something that could be done by
human hands, and it frightened everyone in the village.
When I was sixteen, we experienced the tragedy of having five of
my younger siblings die in a single year. No words could describe the
heartbreak of our parents in losing five of their thirteen children in such
a short time. Death seemed to spread. Other clan members lost their
livestock. One home’s cow suddenly died, though it had been in perfect
health. At another home, several horses died, one after another. At a
third home, seven pigs died in one night.
The suffering of one family seemed connected to the suffering of the
nation and of the world. I was increasingly troubled to see the wretched
situation of the Korean people under Japan’s increasingly tyrannical
rule. People didn’t have enough to eat. They were sometimes forced to
take grass, tree bark, and whatever else they could find, and boil these
for food. There seemed to be no end to wars around the world. Then
one day I read an article in a newspaper about the suicide of a middleschool
student who was the same age as I.
“Why did he die?” I asked myself. “What would drive a person to kill
himself at such a young age?” I was devastated by this news, as if it had
happened to someone who had been close to me. With the newspaper
open to that article, I wept aloud for three days and nights. The tears
kept coming, and I couldn’t make them stop.
I couldn’t comprehend the series of strange events, or the fact that
tragic events were happening to good people. Seeing the bones of my
great-grandfather had inspired me to start asking questions about life
and death, and the series of unusual events in and around our home
caused me to hang on to religion. The Word of God I was hearing in
church, however, was not sufficient by itself to give me the clear answers
I was seeking. To relieve the frustrations in my heart, I naturally began
to immerse myself in prayer.
“Who am I? Where did I come from? What is the purpose of
life? What happens to people when they die? Is there a world of the
eternal soul? Does God really exist? Is God really all-powerful? If He
is, why does He just stand by and watch the sorrows of the world?
If God created this world, did He also create the suffering that is in
the world? What will bring an end to Korea’s tragic occupation by
Japan? What is the meaning of the suffering of the Korean people?
Why do human beings hate each other, fight, and start wars?” My
heart was filled with these serious and fundamental questions. No
one could easily answer them for me, so my only option was to pray.
Prayer helped me to find solace. Whenever I laid out the anguishing
problems in my heart to God, all my suffering and sorrow vanished and
my heart felt at ease. I began spending more and more time in prayer, to
the point that, eventually, I began praying through the night all the time.
As a result, I had a rare and precious experience in which God answered
my prayers. That day will always remain as the most cherished memory
of my life—a day I can never forget.
It was the night before Easter in the year I turned sixteen. I was on
Mount Myodu praying all night and begging God in tears for answers.
Why had He created a world so filled with sorrow and despair? Why was
the all-knowing and all-powerful God leaving the world in such pain?
What should I do for my tragic homeland? I wept in tears as I asked these
questions repeatedly.
Early Easter morning, after I had spent the entire night in prayer,
Jesus appeared before me. He appeared in an instant, like a gust of
wind, and said to me, “God is in great sorrow because of the pain of
humankind. You must take on a special mission on earth having to do
with Heaven’s work.”
That day, I saw clearly the sorrowful face of Jesus. I heard his voice
clearly. The experience of witnessing the manifestation of Jesus caused my
body to shake violently, like a quaking aspen’s leaves trembling in a strong
breeze. I was simultaneously overcome with fear so great I felt I might die
and gratitude so profound I felt I might explode. Jesus spoke clearly about
the work I would have to do. His words were extraordinary, having to do
with saving humanity from its suffering and bringing joy to God.
My initial response was, “I can’t do this. How can I do this? Why
would you even give me a mission of such paramount importance?” I
was truly afraid. I wanted somehow to avoid this mission, and I clung
to the hem of his clothing and wept inconsolably.
