Tears Are Prayer
The day I listened to old Korean songs and wept all day
The Warmth of a Dream
In a dream before dawn, I was held in my sister’s arms. No reason, no condition—I was just held. My brother-in-law stood nearby, saying nothing, quietly allowing it. The warmth of that embrace was so vivid that even after I woke, something stayed—right in the center of my chest.
Before that warmth could fade, my hands moved first. I put on the songs of Park Inhee. “Bonfire.” “The Wanderer.” “Between Those Who Miss Each Other.” Then I sang “The Island Baby” out loud.
I wept. Hard.
The Songs I Had Forbidden
For decades, I did not listen to Korean songs. To be precise, it wasn’t that I didn’t listen. I wouldn’t allow it. I believed that for someone who practiced contemplative prayer, secular music was a step away from God. Meditative music, Taizé chants, Gregorian hymns, or silence. Those were supposed to be the soundtrack of my spiritual life.
So I didn’t listen. For decades.
What the Songs Opened
It wasn’t the songs that were sad. It was what they opened.
Mom. For decades in America, I kept my eyes forward and ran. I missed her but pretended I didn’t. I thought of my father but pushed it away—that’s the past. The smell of the Korean countryside, the sounds of narrow alleyways, a childhood in poverty—remembering pulled me backward.
My daughters when they were small. Fragile. Pure. That time already gone. Grown now, married, soon to have children of their own. I had been so busy looking ahead. All of it broke open at once—in a single song.
That Day, I Did Not Stop
Before that day, whenever these feelings rose, I pressed them down. An inner command kicked in: Stay focused on prayer. Don’t fall into this. You have things to do. Melancholy is dangerous. I had kept that door shut for decades.
But that day was different. I did not stop. I just wept.
And as I wept, I saw. How long the voice of should had ruled me. I must stay alert. I must not sink into sadness. If I feel too much, I’ll lose the day. All of it—duty. All of it—fear.
Then what were these tears? Something the body wanted. Something the soul wanted. What the inner child had been asking for, for decades, finally rising to the surface.
I had been guiding others to let go of obligation and follow what they truly desire. But before my own grief, I was gripping obligation with both hands.
The Door
Through years of Centering Prayer, I had felt it—how in deep silence, buried emotions rise. That day, the old songs simply opened the same door the silence had been nudging.
My constant immersion, my ceaseless practice of presence, my resolve not to lose a single second. These had also been serving as armor—against feeling. The door God had opened in the dream that morning—the permission of my sister’s arms—I had been closing it myself all day.
The Wanderer’s Song
So I stopped. I listened to more songs. I wept as long as I wanted. I set no time limit.
The day was not ruined. The opposite. When the energy I’d spent on suppression was released, the rest of the day felt freer.
Listening to Park Inhee’s “The Wanderer,” tears came again.
The road I walk, following the beloved of my heart,
is an eternal road leading into dreams.
Though today it is a tear-stained road I walk alone,
someday, we will meet again.
Here I am in the wilderness of America, digging a contemplative well alone. Walking alone—yet following the beloved of my heart, walking with God.
A Person Who Smells Like Earth
That evening, I came across a poem by Park Inhee.
In a world full of people
where it is hard to find a truly human person,
I want to meet just one—someone who smells like a human being.
Soft earth where I would want my bones to rest on the last day.
If I could meet such a person,
I would become water and seep into their soul.
I thought: I want to become that kind of person.
Tears Are Prayer
That day, I listened to old Korean songs and wept all day long. In the very center of my contemplative practice, it was one of the deepest prayers I have ever prayed.
Tears were prayer. Everything I had shut away—believing it would take me further from God—had been a door God was waiting to open.
I look back now. There were doors I had locked. I stand before them again.
And the wanderer’s song returns—”Though today it is a tear-stained road I walk alone.”
PS. The songs that filled my room that day—Park Inhee’s “Bonfire,” “The Wanderer,” “Between Those Who Miss Each Other,” “The Island Baby”… Park Inhee Song Collection
Sacred Opportunities for Growth
Sunday Morning Centering Prayer with Lectio Divina
Weekly at 8:00 AM PT · Open to all
Join on Zoom: https://uredlands.zoom.us/j/5407251388?pwd=WHFSRGkyMjhKUUhBOVFsa1pqQmVNdz09
Listening Heart Community Gathering
Third Sundays, 4:00–6:00 PM PT (7:00–9:00 PM ET)
Feb–May: Feb 15, Mar 15, Apr 19, May 17
Communal prayer, sharing, and fellowship. All are welcome.
Free · Donations welcome
Join on Zoom: https://uredlands.zoom.us/j/5407251388?pwd=WHFSRGkyMjhKUUhBOVFsa1pqQmVNdz09
The Prayerful Way II: Deepening the Heart
Thursdays, 4:00–5:30 PM PT · March 5 – April 2, 2026 (5 weeks)
Continuing the journey into diverse forms of contemplative prayer. All are welcome.
Details & Registration: https://www.listeningheartcommunity.org/events/27
Every Minute with God: Letters by a Modern Mystic
Fridays, 1:00–2:30 PM PT (4:00–5:30 PM ET)
Mar–Apr: Mar 6, Mar 13, Mar 20, Mar 27, Apr 3
A contemplative practice exploring continuous prayer through Frank Laubach’s writings. Slow reading, silence, and experimenting with God’s presence in daily life.
Details & Registration: https://www.listeningheartcommunity.org/events/29
Contemplative Leadership for Korean Immigrant Pastors
Tuesdays, 3:00–5:30 PM PT · March 3 – March 31, 2026 (5 weeks)
Group Spiritual Direction for pastoral leaders. All denominations welcome.
Details & Registration: https://www.listeningheartcommunity.org/events/28
For full details and registration, visit: listeningheartcommunity.org
An Invitation to Sacred Flow
As we develop and practice the way of the Listening Heart together, you are warmly invited to join this unfolding journey.
I am grateful for each of you—whether you’ve joined as a gift, paid, or free subscriber.
May this space be a sacred ground where we truly meet one another and are gently transformed together.
You are already here.