MOVING MOUNTAINS

The night of my 22nd birthday, my dad called me to say happy birthday. The moment I picked up the phone he started singing me the birthday song, followed by a series of questions of my weekend plans. I told him I was going to Dave & Buster’s and he jokingly forbid me to go. Isn’t that where all the kids go to get drunk and play games, he asked. I guess I can’t blame him for such culture shocks. After I reassured him that I was going to be fine, he quickly turned the tables from a giggly laugh to a solemn tone and asked, ‘Can I just ask you one thing?‘ Of course, Dad. ‘I’ve been reading the news lately, and people are dying left and right…‘ Okay and…? ‘If you died tonight, do you know if you would go to heaven?‘ I can’t count how many times he’s asked me this specific question in my past 22 years, but for the first time in a long time, I found myself listening and thinking hard about both the reason for his asking and the question itself. After what seemed like a while, I answered, ‘Yeah… yeah I do.‘ To my non-surprise, he asked how? ‘Because Jesus died for me…‘ I also can’t count how many times in the past I’ve used ‘Jesus‘ as my guaranteed approved answer. He knew this too, so he proceeded to talk about his church-going friends who would say the same thing but live such unconvincing lives… I stopped him there and said, as best as I could in my broken korean, that I knew I was going to heaven because I knew deep down inside (and out) that I was a sinner. ‘…There’s no good that I’ve done or could do to change that, but I know Jesus took my place out of love…‘ He broke out with the most asian expression of approval, ‘Ahh puh-pect! (perfect)’ and then asked, ‘Then why do you do good deeds?‘ I thought about it soberly and replied as honestly as I could, ‘…because I’m eternally thankful.‘

Right then and there, I heard him tear up. Maybe he heard the feeble attempt at honesty in my voice. Or maybe, most likely, he was reminiscing on his own experiences of grace. Whichever the case, he was losing it, and it was the first time in all 22 years of my life I’ve heard my dad cry. This was the man who didn’t even cry at his own dad’s funeral. I remember now, I was 8 or so, bawling and watching him through my tears as he stood there over the grave, speechless, emotionless, holding it together for the sake of his family. He loved his dad more than life itself and even that couldn’t shake him. Here was that man, struggling to say next, ‘Ha I don’t know what’s gotten into me these days, I can’t control my tears even when at church… I mean, who am I? I’m a nobody… but do you know how thankful I am for what Christ has done for me… he’s given me heaven and earth in exchange for my worthless soul…‘

As I sat there listening to him share about God’s work in his life, I completely lost it. It was the first time my dad and I really talked about the gospel together. In tears for that matter. All these years, I’ve seen my dad’s flaws and failures. His anger, his frustrations, his short-comings. And words don’t need to describe how many times I’ve failed him as a daughter. But I’ve also seen his unwavering love, his diligence, his integrity, and now his humility. I can honestly say that God is faithful and that “he who began a good work in you will bring it to completion at the day of Jesus Christ.” (Phil1:6) It’s true what Jesus says about faith: it can move mountains.