From time to time I’ve thought of this memory as a divine revelation, a moment that signified and set in motion my life. I know it’s from when I was five or six years old, in the spacious living room of a traditional two-story house my parents used to frequent. There, my mother and the other women would place large wooden cutting boards on the floor and prepare enough food to feed everyone. I remember the sharp, fragrant aroma of scallions wrapped in newspaper and plump onions freshly rinsed, the bright red blood that would pool on the wood when the meat was sliced for the soup, the fat that stuck to the wavy ridges of the kitchen knives. If I got too close, my mom would say, “Be careful!” and put a piece of pear, thinly sliced for cooking, or a small chunk of pumpkin rice cake in my mouth. The women would laugh, blades in hand. Everyone who came to the house spoke in quiet voices as they ate together before returning to their homes. 

Later, I realized that this house was a kind of temple where religious meetings took place, the details of which I have no way of learning now. I remember how the adults would gather in the innermost room, praying with hands clasped toward a wall decorated with incense, curtains, idols, and ornaments, singing and reading from a small leather-bound book, my parents in reverent worship while I clung to their legs and whined. I knew all these acts held special meaning. I vaguely understood that these people were practicing a faith they shared, but for some reason I didn’t pay it any mind, or talk about those days with anyone, for a long time. 

As far as I know, this belief system was closer to a primitive faith based on myths than an organized religion. The exact origins are still unclear to me, but it’s easy to see that different elements were changed or added as the faith spread from culture to culture. There were clear influences from Christianity, European and Chinese mythology, Japanese Buddhism, and Taoism. At least there was no cultlike longing for the Second Coming. Of course, I never knew if the nice couple who owned the house and led the services ever asked people for money. 

My parents went to that house for about three years. They stayed in touch with some of the people they’d met there, but from what I could tell, they never discussed religious matters together, or anything that happened during that time. Most of the folks who attended those gatherings were ordinary couples or families: people grieving the illnesses or deaths of loved ones, people facing problems they didn’t know how to solve, people who couldn’t free themselves from their past traumas. They were all exhausted and hurt. During their time together, they learned how to find blessings in their everyday lives, to notice and fully receive God’s subtle signs of comfort. 

The children, like me, who were brought to the house by their parents, all played together in an attic turned playroom. Yudam, who was my age, had a congenital condition that caused the bones of her legs and ankles to twist inward as they grew. When she crawled, pulling herself forward with her arms, her legs trailed behind her like the tail of a stranded mermaid. For her sake, we stuck to games we could play while seated on the floor. Playing marbles, in particular, remains a special memory to me. When I held a small, shiny marble between my fingers and lifted it toward the light, I saw slightly twisted, colorful feathers suspended in the center. I firmly believed these were the feathers of tiny birds, that there was a frozen land where birds as small as a finger flew away to die. I don’t know if this came from my imagination or something I’d read. 

So when Yudam, who had been lying on the floor, suddenly twisted her joints in a bizarre way and writhed in pain, I naturally assumed the marbles were to blame. I thought she must have swallowed them by accident. In my mind, I yelled at her to spit them out, to spit them out that instant, but the only sounds that left my lips were terrified sobs. Other kids were crying, too. Desperate for something to cling to, I flailed my arms like I was drowning, and my hand caught Eunryeong’s. 

Eunryeong was watching Yudam like everyone else, but she wasn’t crying. She seemed to be staring less at Yudam herself than at the spot on the floor where she lay. Eunryeong’s calm expression frightened me, but I couldn’t let go of her hand. While she didn’t shake me off, she also didn’t look at me. To this day, I have no memory of Eunryeong before this moment. Then she spoke. “Say something.”