When My Mother Found Jesus
Across the street from our apartment was a small street market where the residents of Jigokdong got their groceries, clothes, and other everyday items. There were also private academies for children: piano, art, and abacus classes. Most moms in Jigokdong sent their children to these classes, and Mom had me try them too. She couldn't afford them, of course, and to her relief, I lost interest in all of them within a month or two. Without hesitation or coaxing me to stay, she canceled the registrations.
But there was one class I didn't quit. And it was free: Sunday school at a brand-new church that had started in a tent among the grocery vendors and private academies and children's clothing stores. They gave out candies and snacks at the end of class, and before long, children from the neighborhood began attending the bible study, including me. Then the parents of those children started attending Sunday services, including my mom.
She couldn't afford them, of course, and to her relief, I lost interest in all of them within a month or two.
The moment she was told that Jesus died for her because he loved her unconditionally, and that God would grant her wishes if she repented and prayed hard enough (even wishes like a transformed husband), she fell in love with Jesus. At first it was only Sunday service, but it didn’t take long for her to go to Wednesday service, then Friday night prayer sessions, then every little gathering the church held. And that wasn't it. When she was home, she prayed all the time: before eating, before bed, before leaving home, before doing anything. She made me pray all the time too. "You are the first Christian in this house, so you should be exemplary in believing."
Now as Mom spent more time outside home, leaving me, a third grader, in charge of my sisters, the house grew even more chaotic: dirty dishes piling higher in the sink, dirty laundry stacking up next to the bathroom door (we didn't have a washing machine until years later), and we children getting dirtier, like those poor kids at an orphanage. Many nights, our father found himself having to feed his children after work.
At first, he was okay. When he came home, the conversation went like this:
"Where is your mother?"
"She went to church."
"Did you guys eat yet?"
"Not yet."
Then he started cooking by mixing everything into a boiling pot, making us a soup he called "Daddy's special mixed soup," and for some reason, it tasted better than anything Mom made, so we didn't mind his cooking.
But after a few more times like that, he made fun of her when she returned home.
"Oh, you've been to Jesus again? You sure you can go to heaven by doing that?" or "Oh, you've been to the pastor again? You must love him more than your husband."
Mom would respond by sighing out loud and shaking her head, or sometimes she'd say, "It must be an evil spirit making you do this to me. Evil spirits hate Jesus, so you must have one."
Oh my god, I just wanted her to shut up. All she was doing was making him hate Jesus, which wasn't helping her at all.
"Can I tell you a secret?"
One day after school, when I was helping her gut dried anchovies, Mom looked at me conspiratorially, a sly smile on her face, like a schoolgirl about to share a naughty secret. I knew that face. She loved to gossip about the ladies at Inhwa: an ajumma whose husband turned out to have gone to junior college (when everyone else only had high school degrees, a two-year degree was prestigious), an ajumma who was like a rooster so you'd better not get on her nerves unless you wanted to start a women's wrestling match, or an ajumma who was nice to my mom.
Not because I was interested in the Inhwa ladies' lives, but because I liked seeing her eyes sparkle. It didn't happen often.
"What is it, Umma?" I always showed interest when she began like this. Not because I was interested in the Inhwa ladies' lives, but because I liked seeing her eyes sparkle. It didn't happen often.
"I started to tithe," she whispered, looking into my eyes, away from the dried fish spread on the low tray between us. "And I think it works."
Every Sunday, our pastor told us that by giving ten percent of our income to the church, God would bless us in return. But a tenth was too high a percentage when you lived on credit with most stores in the street market. In fact, we heard at least once a day, ‘We can't afford that.’
"I thought we don't have any money."
"That's why—so we will have some money." Her brows were raised. "And it's working, I swear."
What I wanted to say was "I don't know," but I was just a child and it wasn't like she was asking for my opinion. So I said, "Okay, I'm happy for you."
Then a few weeks later she told me another secret: that she contributed to the "Building Fund" so the church could ditch the tent and move into a real building. Then it was "Gratitude Fund," so she could show God how thankful she was for all the blessings He had given her and those He would give her.
"By giving money in advance," she explained, "I'm holding God to His word. He said 'test me' in the Bible. Our pastor said we can."
She was excited for all the future blessings. I was worried about the consequences. It was only a matter of time before my father found out, and when that happened, what would happen? I didn't even want to imagine.
She was excited for all the future blessings. I was worried about the consequences.
Unfortunately, it didn't take more than a month after my mom's proud confession to me over the anchovies for my father to ask her, looking straight into her eyes like an interrogator who believes an intense stare can scoop the truth from anyone's eyes, "You gave money to the church, didn't you?"
"What are you talking about? I didn't give any money to any church!"
Sometimes her lies worked: my father would narrow his eyes but drop the subject.
Other times, they didn't.
"Did Jesus tell you to lie?" he'd bellow, and that would be another day of dishes flying into the air, us girls freezing like statues, and Mom yelping like a dog on its last day.
A fourth child is coming. The neighbors gasp. The family prays. Everything depends on what happens next.
© 2025 The SteelMaker’s Daughter by Yuni J. All Rights Reserved.
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