"If a house burns down, it's gone, but the place—the picture of it—stays."
—Toni Morrison, Beloved
My parents got married on a lavender farm. From ten to eighteen years old, I spent most weekends there, because that was where church met.
My mom came across Christianity while working at a sandwich shop. She had just immigrated from Korea to Los Angeles, and she was curious about life: Why we live, why life seemed pointless. The sandwich shop owner was Korean. He told her to go read certain passages in the Bible. She did. She listened to recordings of sermons he gave her. She believed. She started going to the shop owner's church, where she met my Dad.
My dad was previously an atheist. I'm not sure what his story is, but I know that he and his two sisters decided to go to that church too. That's where he met my mom.
For a while, church was held in Orange County, but then it moved to this half-farm half-resort. It took over an hour to drive there. My parents fought almost every ride. I would plug my ears and sing. As a family, we didn't spend much time together besides this drive.
From this cramped Toyota car, we'd pull into a long dirt road, and my world would expand again. In my young body, the place was huge. It had hiking trails, an old pool, ponds, old trees, antique buildings, cacti, and squirrels, ducks, and deer. My church friends and I ran around day and night. We'd choose trees to lay on, write on rocks and then hide them, and jump onto the island in the pond with the permission of the "password". There was a big drama once, because the guys played a game where they threw rocks in the air. A rock landed on a kid's face, and he had to get stitches. I don't remember my parents keeping tabs on us, given we didn't have cell phones. They probably expected us to show up for food, which of course we did, and was made by the Korean moms.
Church volunteers watched over us when we swam in the old pool, and they also taught Sunday school and Korean language classes. Amongst my church friends, I learned how to read and write Korean, and learned about Korean history. Then I would sit in to long sermons about the Bible. We went over a lot of history and teachings on how to live. I learned about the travels of a people (Israel), a horrifying place called Hell, and the founding of our planet. I learned that Korean adults loved when I bowed at a ninety degree angle. They thought it cute my respect.
One day, I was outside sitting by myself on chairs cut from the local trees. It was in the middle of a church camp I enrolled myself in to get salvation. My mind wandered: Did I believe the Bible to be true? Was another religion was true? There were periods of no thought. In those moments, my eyes wandered. The view was out of a Lewis Carroll book. A light chirping of birds, soft sunlight filtered in, a breeze flowed over my body, a tan spotted deer peeked into my line of sight. I looked around and wrote: "There must be a God."
I haven't regularly gone to church since I was eighteen.
I went to UCLA instead. My first year, I went to the soccer field at night with a journal in my hand. I sat in the bleachers alone. What am I doing here? Why are people always talking about nothing? I still didn't have answers.
Now I'm thirty-one. Church is not a consideration in my weekend plans. Religion, or even an interest in life or death, doesn't come up in my day-to-day life. It isn't part of the city I live in, or among the friends I have. I'm not reminded to go.
My korean identity, my childhood, my family — It's still tied to that place. I don't think about it much, and I don't talk about it much, but I get the sense that my mind filters through those memories. I support kids wandering in nature without a curfew. I still believe in a God. I stand up for the positive influences of church, and I hope kids participate in communities that expands their language, culture, and food. I support South Korea in the World Cup. Would I have supported South Korea, with the passion I have now, if I hadn't spent those weekends with Korean people?
At the same time, I worry that those experiences keep me from growing in the opposite direction. Is Christianity a net harm to the world? Could I have ended up a happier with a different religion? I don't know. I only have one life and that church was assigned to me as a baby. Overall, those experiences were expansive. Weekends expanded my life outside of the suburb, walls, theories, grades, and American life. Weekends gave me nature, no curfews, questions without answers, and Asian customs. Even today, I would benefit from a world like that on weekends, a world outside of city life. As long as I don't let my childhood experiences cage my thoughts in, maybe it's a net gain.
I read Toni Morrison's Beloved when I was in my mid-twenties. I was taken aback by her depiction of place and memory. Ah, this is true. I can walk through my old homes, my ex-boyfriend's apartment, my old church, my childhood supermarket, my grandma's condo. These memories seem to become a video game setting in my mind. I can walk through them in the car, in the DMV, or at a desk.
There's another quote I grew up with, by our church pastor.
He said, "There is nothing to life but cherished memories and sad memories.".