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The tiny, white room reeked of potpourri and crumpled pages. I stood at the entrance of the praying room, the smallest orifice in the house, yet the best-kept. It consisted of only a small knee table with a giant Bible on top, a cushion, and wooden cross on the wall.
With a rag in my hand, I slowly got down on my knees, not to pray, but to clean the marble floor. Normally, my mother would do it, but she wasn't here.
The room was cold. I hadn't touched this room for years. It was still intimidating to even enter. I remembered back when I was a meek girl devoted to God spending every Saturday in this room, desperately praying for whatever came to mind. "Please protect my family!" I would conclude passionately. Now the only visitor was my mother. She prayed every day, and from the ventilator, her moans and sobs echoed eerily in the upstairs bathroom heater.
I stopped going to church because I was sick of the hypocrisy. We had been church migrants for years. We met money-grubbing priests, corrupt clergies, and gossipy Korean elders. Eventually, I simply gave up the idea of an "ideal" church. The church-goers were human, and therefore, imperfect.
Now my parents believe that they're in hell. In these hard times, they depended solely on God and prayed to Him daily, begging for salvation. They even went out on Saturdays to clean the church toilets.
I dragged the rag over the floor. How many tears have dried on the seemingly spotless surface? I cleaned my mother's raw emotions that shattered on the cold ground. I stopped praying to God because I thought He wasn't listening. I stopped depending on him when I saw that no matter how hard I or my parents pleaded, He didn't respond. Was I holding a grudge? No. I still believed in Him. But I'm not devoted. I saw the cruelties of reality. When He offered no assistance, I simply accepted his answer and went alone.
Before I can depend on others, I must depend on myself. The time I spent pleading and crying could be spent on actual actions. Instead of kneeling and begging for help, I stood on my own two feet and used whatever I had to deal with life. I stopped praying and spent my words encouraging myself and others. I no longer prayed for good grades and happiness: I studied by myself and performed charity acts to make my prayers come true. By leaving Father's side, I learned how to walk by myself. I gained independence, and though my faith in Him may have weakened, my faith in myself has grown.
Imperfect they are, humans are capable of miracles.
I stood up, gazing at the wooden cross. Quietly, I bowed my head and shut my eyes. I haven't done this for years, but I can't ever forget this age-old position. "Thank you for letting me grow," I murmured, before departing the room, not as a weeping child, but as a mature, determined adult.
The tiny, white room reeked of potpourri and crumpled pages. I stood at the entrance of the praying room, the smallest orifice in the house, yet the best-kept. It consisted of only a small knee table with a giant Bible on top, a cushion, and wooden cross on the wall.
With a rag in my hand, I slowly got down on my knees, not to pray, but to clean the marble floor. Normally, my mother would do it, but she wasn't here.
The room was cold. I hadn't touched this room for years. It was still intimidating to even enter. I remembered back when I was a meek girl devoted to God spending every Saturday in this room, desperately praying for whatever came to mind. "Please protect my family!" I would conclude passionately. Now the only visitor was my mother. She prayed every day, and from the ventilator, her moans and sobs echoed eerily in the upstairs bathroom heater.
I stopped going to church because I was sick of the hypocrisy. We had been church migrants for years. We met money-grubbing priests, corrupt clergies, and gossipy Korean elders. Eventually, I simply gave up the idea of an "ideal" church. The church-goers were human, and therefore, imperfect.
Now my parents believe that they're in hell. In these hard times, they depended solely on God and prayed to Him daily, begging for salvation. They even went out on Saturdays to clean the church toilets.
I dragged the rag over the floor. How many tears have dried on the seemingly spotless surface? I cleaned my mother's raw emotions that shattered on the cold ground. I stopped praying to God because I thought He wasn't listening. I stopped depending on him when I saw that no matter how hard I or my parents pleaded, He didn't respond. Was I holding a grudge? No. I still believed in Him. But I'm not devoted. I saw the cruelties of reality. When He offered no assistance, I simply accepted his answer and went alone.
Before I can depend on others, I must depend on myself. The time I spent pleading and crying could be spent on actual actions. Instead of kneeling and begging for help, I stood on my own two feet and used whatever I had to deal with life. I stopped praying and spent my words encouraging myself and others. I no longer prayed for good grades and happiness: I studied by myself and performed charity acts to make my prayers come true. By leaving Father's side, I learned how to walk by myself. I gained independence, and though my faith in Him may have weakened, my faith in myself has grown.
Imperfect they are, humans are capable of miracles.
I stood up, gazing at the wooden cross. Quietly, I bowed my head and shut my eyes. I haven't done this for years, but I can't ever forget this age-old position. "Thank you for letting me grow," I murmured, before departing the room, not as a weeping child, but as a mature, determined adult.