My Story (14): A Tribute to My Mother

(Written on May 24, 2021)

 

 

"Pastor Kim, you are quite unusual. Who lives like that nowadays? It's not normal."

Currently, I am staying at my daughter's house near Washington. Whenever I visit, I make it a point to participate in a specific ministry: Pastor Na Un-Joo's wilderness outreach. This program serves the homeless population in Washington, addressing both their spiritual and physical needs. During the nine years my family lived in this area, I actively partnered in this outreach, developing a close working relationship with Pastor Na. While driving together, I shared with him how frugal my lifestyle is. His comment about me is quoted above.

 

In truth, I haven’t spent money on a new suit for the last 30 years. Of the two suits I wear most often, one was purchased at a garage sale for $20, and the other was given to me by a pastor colleague in Seattle who insisted I wear it while speaking from his church’s pulpit. 

 

Adjusting to life in Seoul with meager means in my early days, I led an intensely frugal life. Ever since earning my first paycheck of 100,000 won back in 1976, I’ve adhered to a strict principle:

 

“Live on 30% of your salary and save the remaining 70%.”

 

I upheld this rule until I was dispatched to the Samsung New York office in 1981 because I knew that when resources are limited, spending everything often leads to a lifetime of renting and debt. People frequently ask, "How did you manage to live on just 30%?" The answer lies in mindset: if you believe your income is only 30% of what you earn, it becomes possible to adapt.

 

This habit of extreme thrift stems directly from my mother. Today, I want to share her incredible story. No one embodies frugality more than my mother. She married my father in Yeongcheon at 17, gave birth to my older sister at 18, and my older brother at 21. During the Korean War, she left her children in their hometown while fleeing to Gimcheon with my father, bringing only a little bag of rice. This small amount of rice was all they had to sustain them. Do you know what my mother did with it? She made rice cakes and sold them to refugees at Gimcheon Train Station. During those times, food was incredibly scarce, and the rice cakes sold instantly. By selling the cakes, she turned a little bag of rice into the value of two bags. What did she do next? Despite her hunger, she used the profit to make more rice cakes, which she sold again at the station.

 

I was born in a tiny room that my parents rented after they arrived at Gimcheon. My mother, still weak from childbirth, made rice cakes and carried them for 6 kilometers to the train station to sell. Consequently, I was never breastfed—her malnutrition made it impossible for her to produce milk. My mother was only 28 years old at the time.

 

Through her relentless efforts, she saved enough money for my father, who had been working as a laborer in someone else's taffy factory, to open his own business. She also purchased a one-room house, marking the beginning of our family's journey to success. Over time, our family moved to larger homes three times, each time expanding the scale of my father’s taffy factory. Whenever there was a major expense, my father would ask:

 

“Honey, don’t you have any hidden savings?”

 

Remarkably, my mother always managed to produce the exact amount needed. She saved money bit by bit, stashing it away discreetly. Despite handling taffy by-product sales herself and earning only small amounts, she accumulated significant savings over time. However, she never spent a single penny on herself. She suffered from chronic stomach issues and endured intermittent gastric cramps for over a decade. Frequently, the pain was so severe that she would clutch her abdomen and roll around the floor in agony. Despite this, she refused to seek medical help.

 

“Cutting into the body means death,” she used to say.

 

I believed her words until I grew older and realized the truth—she avoided medical treatment because it would cost money. When medical intervention became unavoidable, the severity of her condition had escalated. In 1969, after failing the entrance exam for Seoul National University, I was temporarily staying at home when my mother experienced severe gastric cramps, eventually losing consciousness. Alarmed, I rushed her to the local hospital, where doctors diagnosed her with advanced gallbladder stones. Immediate surgery was necessary to remove her gallbladder. The surgery costs were exorbitant, and our family was at a loss. Regaining consciousness briefly, my mother said:

 

“I saved 100,000 won in the closet to pay Jin-Tae’s entrance fee for Seoul National University. Use it for the hospital bill.”

 

Six years later, my mother passed away from liver cancer at the age of 52. At that time, I was stationed at the front-line GP (Guard Post) during my military service. After her funeral, I returned to the base and met Army Medical Officer Lieutenant Kwak, a friend of mine. When I shared the story of my mother, he said:

 

“My friend, didn’t I tell you before? Delaying gallstone surgery for too long results in removing the gallbladder and its tubes, which leads to liver cancer within five years. What has happened was inevitable. When even morphine doesn’t help anymore, passing away quickly is a blessing. Keep your mind steady.”

 

Recently, I drove over 20 hours to attend my son Jae-Jun’s wedding in Nashville. Strangely, thoughts of my mother kept resurfacing during the drive. According to the lunar calendar, she passed away just before Buddha’s birthday. I recall seeing people preparing for the celebration when we laid her to rest in a Catholic cemetery. Reflecting on the dates, I realized that we left for Virginia on May 13, stayed at Pastor Na Un-Joo’s house for a night, and departed again on the very day of her passing—lunar April 3.

 

My mother dedicated her life to her family without spending a single penny on herself, and she passed away amid immense pain. It deeply hurts me. If she had lived a life without hardships, perhaps she would still be alive today at the age of 98.

 

"樹欲靜而風不止 子欲養而親不待"

(The tree wishes to be still, but the wind does not stop. The child wishes to care for their parents, but they do not wait.)