Proverbs 16:9:

 

“In their hearts humans plan their course, but the Lord establishes their steps.” — Proverbs 16:9

 

 

I had originally planned to travel to Korea on September 2 of this year and stay for three weeks. I wanted to visit my hometown of Gimcheon and see my elderly sister and brother-in-law, as well as my older brother, his wife, and my uncle. Since I don’t know how much longer they’ll be with us, I wanted to see them while I still could. I had already purchased my flight ticket and arranged accommodations in Seoul. I’d attempted to go last year as well, but a sudden one-week denominational trip to Turkey in September left me completely drained. On top of that, I joined a second trip tracing the footsteps of Paul in Turkey in November. Not long after that, I took on a temporary pastoral role at a denominational church in Charleston, SC, requiring weekly flights back and forth—so a trip to Korea was out of the question. I was determined to go this time.

 

However, starting June 1, I was stricken with severe abdominal pain and diarrhea, unable to eat or sleep properly for an entire week. A blood test on June 7 showed my sodium level had dropped to 118. On June 8, my doctor rushed me to Holy Name Hospital Emergency by ambulance. After a week in the hospital trying to stabilize my sodium levels, my body became severely weakened and unstable. I was discharged on June 12 when my sodium reached 133, just below the normal 134, but within a safe range. Still, with a stomach ulcer and unstable sodium levels, it didn’t seem wise to proceed with an overseas trip, and I had to cancel.

 

I notified my sister and relatives on KakaoTalk on June 13. Then on June 16, during a video call, I learned my brother-in-law had suffered a stroke and was in a coma at Gimcheon Provincial Hospital. His brain vessels were completely blocked, leaving nothing the hospital could do. At age 90 (Korean age), with my sister at 85 and already in poor health due to past spinal and heart surgeries, it felt like I might lose them both soon. I prayed fervently for my brother-in-law to regain consciousness so he could say goodbye to the family. Thankfully, he regained consciousness on June 21, though his speech was slurred and unintelligible, and one side of his body was immobile. A further exam revealed a 6cm tumor in his rectum—another shocking blow. The hospital recommended focusing treatment on the stroke rather than the cancer. While his condition remains severe, there’s hope that he may live a bit longer, which eased my heart somewhat. Yet above all, I’m most concerned for my sister. So today, I want to talk about her.

 

My mother married my father at age 16 and gave birth to her first daughter, Sunbun Kim—my sister—the following year. Three years later, at 20, she had my older brother, and at 27, she had me. I had two other brothers who died in infancy before I was born, so I became the second son instead of the fourth. I was born on January 4, 1952, in the middle of the Korean War. As the conflict intensified just before the ceasefire negotiations, my parents left my sister and brother in their hometown of Yaksutgol and fled to Gimcheon with nothing but a small amount of rice. They rented a room in a remote, impoverished area, where my mother gave birth to me. The room was little more than a dusty storage shack. With no food, my mother couldn’t produce breast milk, and I cried ceaselessly from hunger. Eventually, she summoned my sister and brother to help.

 

My sister, ten years older than me, carried me on her back for most of the day. She begged neighbors for milk to soothe my crying. But such charity was never plentiful, and I remained a wailing child. My sister spent her days calming me. In the evenings, she would wait under the persimmon tree at the village entrance with me on her back, hoping for our parents’ return—father from making taffy, mother from selling rice cakes at the station. Perhaps from all that crying, people now say my voice is unusually loud and persuasive when I sing or preach.

 

We were inseparable. Even when she secretly met my brother-in-law, I tagged along. He was about five or six years older than my sister—handsome, gentle, and sociable. He often gave me money for candy, but I’d rush back immediately after buying just one piece, irritating him with my persistent presence. When they told our parents they wanted to marry, they faced fierce opposition, especially from my mother, due to my brother-in-law's poor family background. Though our family had little, my sister never even attended elementary school, working instead in factories from a young age. My parents resisted the idea of sending her into even deeper poverty. But eventually, they relented due to her hunger strike, and the couple married, remaining devoted to each other for over 60 years.

 

My sister had a brilliant mind, structured speech, and persuasive ability—she could’ve been a scholar if she had been born into different circumstances. But in those days, society dismissed the value of educating women, especially those from impoverished backgrounds. Despite it all, she was physically strong, once winning a co-ed arm-wrestling contest in the village. I was the only one among our five siblings to attend university, but all except my sister graduated from high school. I studied through great hardship, and I’ve always carried a sense of guilt for her sacrifices.

 

 

I can’t go to Korea now, but in my restlessness, I sent her a small gift of 1 million won for encouragement. It brought me a bit of comfort. Lord, please sustain them both, and grant me the grace to see them once more.