So Loved the World
“ 숨: Breath | Breathe
값없이 넙죽 받은 끝도 없는 환대에 나의 턱없이 모자란 화답을 가만히 들여다보며 이걸 어쩌나, 한다.”
Life04.Grace, Mixed Media on Paper, 53.5x76.5cm
<세상을 이토록 사랑하사> 링크 → 한겨레 서울앤
Every December, there's someone who comes to mind. "Auntie Rudy," who was a friend to every member of our family when we lived in Iraq during my childhood. She was a Korean nurse dispatched to Germany who married a German man, adopted a son named Rudy from Korea and raised a large, well-mannered dog the color of toasted rice. She was a walking bundle of stories and laughter. She brought us thin, long German sausages, pillowy waffles, tiramisu, and meat stew to share with everyone, volunteered as a swimming instructor for all the neighborhood children— skipping freestyle and backstroke entirely and teaching only breaststroke—and the diamond game too, only to storm
out of the room in anger when little me blocked her from declaring victory. She was also an "adult" who declared that if she ever played with me again, she would not be human.
One day, she invited several Korean families to a Christmas party at her house. The large tree and Christmas decorations placed everywhere, like decorative stockings, were probably a first for all of us. The mischievous kids who would normally play hide-and-seek, piggyback rides, and tag with excitement were distracted from play that day by the savory smells filling the house, peeking in and out, wondering when we'd be called to eat. Then Auntie Rudy called us from the living room. She brought us in front of the large Christmas tree, handed out small sticks, and lit them one by one. They were sparklers, which are easy to find in Korea these days. They fizzed and streamed, scattering brilliant sparks. It was more than beautiful. It was enchanting!
Now I think about how desperate one must have been to leave Korea as a government-sent nurse to Germany, but the Auntie Rudy I knew had not a shadow of sorrow. Her heart was a field full of "hospitality," like a great plain. Even blood relatives couldn't have been so generous, but she was born with a nature that loved people, and combined with her longing for her homeland, she showered unconditional love on anyone Korean.
I heard that sadly, her later years were lonely and difficult—it seems she didn't receive the same "response" as the heart she gave everywhere. "Hospitality" and "response" clearly seem like a set, but they don't exchange in matching sizes. I regretted, with an aching heart, that I should have done better.
Recently, I met with acquaintances in Sinchon and talked about Christmas. For some, it's just a day off, a "red day" on the calendar; for others, it's one of the few days a year they go to church. I pondered the imbalance between hospitality and response, along with my rich memories of Auntie Rudy. At the end of that thought, it suddenly occurred to me that Christmas might be such a day too. The day when a heart that welcomed everyone with love was born. The one born that day fed people who followed him uninvited, sat down to eat with those who were pointed at, sought out and healed those everyone avoided, restoring relationships, and showed hospitality by walking alongside people and listening to their stories. He rejoiced when people responded, but he only waited—never forced them.
Thinking about what Christmas means to me in response to that, I suddenly thought it could be a day of responding. A day to respond to all the hospitality I've received from life and the world. Of course, to respond, I must first know what hospitality I've received, so that's what I should think about first.
It's the air that fills my every breath, the generous mountain ridges that spread out like an ink painting, the sprouts that somehow cleverly know spring has come, the colorful fallen leaves piled softly, the great snowflakes falling like descending stars. Or the young person who held the heavy door, the smile of the clerk who cleaned up what I had spilled, the heart that gave up their seat for me.
Or perhaps the hands that gave flowers with congratulations, the comfort that came to painful places, the presence that stayed by my side. Looking quietly at my woefully inadequate response to the endless hospitality I've taken so freely, without cost, I am at a loss as to what to do with all this. Perhaps today, for me, is a day just for that... .
