We have to get up in a moment. We have to get up, walk, and move even when the car stops—even when you hear a voice over a call telling you your grandfather passed away just a minute ago. Passing a pole, a stop sign, an old man, and a big car, the time felt rushed since he left this world. Why can’t we move back just a li—ttle, when there was a car, an old man, a stop sign, and a pole? (Please!) My voice, over the call, drowned in the whirlwind of my mom’s grief and lament that echoed the abyss of my own sorrow. The car kept moving coldly until we reached Uber Street, our destination. That means it’s time to actually get up, walk, and move. That’s what we did, except my hand carried a tall banner that said “2025 Missionary Trip”, the driver had japchae and kimchi in the other hand, and my pastor had a huge speaker.
We were welcomed by the people. “We” includes the food, the gifts, the missionary members, but only a tiny portion of me. I’m not supposed to be here. The place was filled with celebrations, food, and kindness. It felt wrong. A good number of members handed out food, and a great number sang songs with the kids. I don’t have to be here. My hand picked up a tiny piece of trash from the floor; it wiped out a small blemish on the table; and my voice sang only quietly to myself. Why am I here, if I’m doing almost nothing anyway? No one looked familiar; the members were all new to me, except the pastor. No one who knew about my grandpa was there. No one knows what happened, what kind of day today was for someone.
But I promised to be here. I promised to pull out a small chair, place the music I wrote last week, and use the speaker like I did yesterday. I promised to take a deep breath before my cello supplies the demand for music for us. I made promises. Once made, they are not reversible—like the pole, the stop sign, the old man, and the big car. Once said, they are attached to every single word you speak with gorilla glue. You have to stick with it. I had to stick with it despite the Brobdingnagian wave tickling the bottleneck of my tears and sorrows.
My music didn’t raise the paralyzed nor give sight to the blind that day. It just remains as my belief, hope that it has made an impact. In fact, I don’t even know if the sound waves properly traveled into their ears or somewhere else. I can’t see them. We can’t see them. I’m also not sure whether picking up trash, cleaning tables, singing with the kid, handing out food just for one day would make an impact, a change. I can’t tell. But I know with certainty; I know my promise has power. It has a power because I stick with it, hard as gorilla glue. I stick to the promises I made to my people at the missionary team, crochet youth group, tutoring organization, and school clubs. My words and actions stick to it.
My grandpa didn’t. Stick to it. Grandpa, you promised to be there. When I came back to Korea. You Promised. To be there. No, he was there. He listened to my music. That was recorded. Sent to Korea. To my mom. At the funeral. He listened. To my music. He was there. I was there. My music was there. I guess he slightly stuck to his promise!
