My Uncle

In America, my mother was never a daughter. Never a sister. She was always a wife.

My parents immigrated to the United States in the late seventies. My father's siblings all immigrated too, and everyone lived in Chicago together. He's child number seven, son number three. My mother is the wife of son number three. 

My mother's family stayed in Korea. She's daughter number one, the oldest sister, Big Aunt. Nunim. 

I noticed it for the first time when we visited Korea in 2003. Her youngest brother, the mang-nae, chased after her crying, Nuna! Nuna! A man in his fifties trying to frantically maintain her attention while he told stories, trying to make her laugh, wanting to host her and her two kids from America. She was the Big Aunt after all. 

Every time we came or left Korea, he picked us up in his church van. He's a minister. I hated going to his church, or to any Korean church in general. I can only understand about 60% of the sermons anyway, and I had to bow a million times to all the church people who treated me like I was special for being related to the minister. My mother would say, he's such a good speaker. He's spot on. Too bad his church is so small. I would tell her that God doesn't calculate members the way she and my grandmother do, but they had already stopped talking to me by then. I couldn't care less about his church size. I cared that he loved my mother. That he sought her approval. That he treated her with the respect she deserved as the oldest sister. She felt it and it showed in her demeanor. Walked around the motherland a little taller. 

When G and I were leaving Korea to start our jobs in Cambodia, my uncle was the first to offer help. He put us up the last few days before our flight, let us store our things at his place, and drove us to the airport. We really appreciated it, appreciated him. 

Half a year ago, my mother told me he was sick. Through bits and pieces from different relatives, I found out he has lymphoma of some kind, and that it didn't seem too serious just yet. Everyone was acting like he was going to make it. I visited him a few months ago after he was admitted for treatment. He was acting crotchety and seemed to have some life in him. From the updates my mother was passing along, it seemed like he was weak but getting slightly better.

This last weekend, we went to visit him in the hospital. His body has atrophied. His feet are swollen, but his legs are bones. His mouth remains open, his lips are cracked. They've inserted a catheter. He is dying. I didn't know. My grandmother, who's 90, was crushed. She said she wishes God would take her instead of him.

My relatives believe in miracles, and they never tell the whole truth about illness because God's grace can work miracles. You know, I believe in miracles. But those who tell you they believe in God's healing power has neither a chronically sick relative nor a relative who's passed away. I'm not addressing you. Your faith doesn't impress me.

I'm addressing those people who read my blog, those who aren't sure what to believe anymore, who are fed up with the corruption going on at their churches, who stopped going to church, who don't know if God is there. I'm asking those who are part of any religion or not part of any religion.

Please pray for my uncle, my mom's youngest brother. Pray that he would live to see his children get married and have their own children. But if not, please pray for him that his last days would be peaceful and fulfilling. Full of goodness and grace, love, even joy.