Author: Gungil

written by Younghee Lee, Oct 30 2025

For the Korean version

A few days ago, my husband and I attended the funeral of someone we barely knew, the wife of a friend of my husband’s. 

I had met her only once before, more than ten years ago, at her father’s funeral. She was the eldest daughter-in-law. After the service, several of my husband’s classmates gathered with their spouses, but she did not greet us. Instead, she stood apart, speaking eagerly with someone else. None of us got over to greet her as well. It was unusual, and I’ve remembered it ever since. 

I hoped to tell my husband to go by himself, but the funeral hall was some distance away from us, and my husband was not young, and we decided to attend together since the bereaved husband had personally sent the notice, and we felt it was right to go.

At the entrance to the funeral hall, we met the deceased’s husband. He looked worn and solemn, dressed in a white mourning suit. We exchanged greetings quietly, offered our condolences, and took a seat inside where the casket was placed. 

The portrait of the deceased—gentle and faintly smiling—was displayed on either side of the altar. That image was completely different from how I vaguely remembered her. She appeared warmer and more serene than I remembered. We met two of my husband’s classmates and sat together with the classmate who had come alone. 

The service began under the guidance of the deceased’s nephew, a pastor.  Prayers were offered and hymns were sung, following the order of service, and three of her four children shared brief memories of their mother. Only the youngest son spoke at length, sharing about his mother and her faith.

Next came the tributes from friends, many of whom were medical doctors like her husband. One man, visibly unwell, spoke while remaining seated. In a steady but solemn voice, he said, “None of us came here today for the deceased or for her family. We came for ourselves. No matter how faithfully one attends church, unless one is born again, one cannot enter the Kingdom of Heaven.” He quoted John 3, the words of Jesus to Nicodemus about spiritual rebirth.  It was continued. Someday, the deceased came and asked, “Were you reborn? While he just does and lives good habits with his mother’s religion. First her question startled him, and he even felt offended and uncomfortable, but the remark of the deceased allowed him to look back and experience the rebirth and still live with the rebirthed religious faith. Soon, the atmosphere became solemn as everyone reflected on themselves. 

Next it was the deceased’s husband’s turn. He spoke of how they met—how she had come to America and devoted herself to raising their four children and supporting him. His voice trembled as he recalled those early years. 

Fresh out of medical school, he was drafted and assigned a pressure sore patient, but he had never had any operation before. He continued that, unable to decline in front of his subordinates, he mustered the courage to proceed with the surgery, and thanks to the use of U.S.-made (Mijae), Mycin, the patient fortunately made a full recovery. At that time, the corpse used U.S.-made medication. The word “Mijae” caused a burst of laughter.  When we were young, the U.S. products were the best. The word that he succeeded in treating that patient spread widely, and even the community school’s principal visited, and that’s how he eventually met his wife. Standing before her, he reminisced about their youthful days.  A quiet ripple of warmth moved through the room. 

He planned to tell five grateful memories about her, but due to time constraints, he only shared three. How could it be only three? Even the fact that, in her youth, she declined a position as a KBS announcer and chose instead to serve as an announcer for Far East Broadcasting in Korea was itself a testament to the death of her faith. 

When he spoke about his wife, he said that memories came flooding out one after another, like sweet potato stems trailing in a row, and once again the funeral hall erupted in laughter. It was a heartwarming funeral.

The deceased, who passed away at the age of 85, wore the same serene smile from the very beginning, as if satisfied, displayed on both the upper corners of the frontal portrait. As the service drew to a close, the daughters continued to weep with the unmistakable grief of forever bidding farewell to their mother.

The words of Ecclesiastes 7:1-4 came to mind: A good name is better than precious ointment, and the day of death better than the day of birth. It is better to go to a house of mourning than to go to a house of feasting, for death is the destiny of everyone; the living should take this to heart. Frustration is better than laughter, because a sad face is good for the heart. The heart of the wise is in the house of mourning, but the heart of fools is in the house of pleasure. 

Most of those present were Christians, yet beyond doctrine, there was a shared understanding, an awareness that life does not end here, and that one must prepare for what lies beyond. 

The essential truth is that before death, no one is exempt. On this autumn day, with the sky so high, I felt I had glimpsed an answer to how I ought to live the remaining time of my life. All the way home, the hymn sung by the deceased’s sister and family, There, in that place, with the Lord, we shall live forever echoed in my ears.