His Albums







His Albums



Every January (or February), almost all the ordinary Koreans gather. 

Smaller or bigger families have an awkward greeting at the grandparents' place.


Without exception, I came to the grandmother's place.

Specifically, it is my father and her place and I exceptionally arrived here three days before the holiday.


Even though there are no wifi, private room, and near cafes to go easily,

I just made myself at home more than any time I have. 


In 2022, I was like a lazy old racehorse who did not retire from matches. 

I was fed up with hectic schedules and inhumane treatment from myself and a few people. 

Having trips for three and a half hours three times a week, 

I realized that the poor are busier than the rich.

They have to be more diligent but stay exhausted. 

I chose to be preoccupied as I was a naive person more than I expected. 



Anyway, that was why I especially felt easier in the place where I used to feel stuck.

It was way smoother to talk to my dad and hang out with my grandmother.


After a long long time, I and my grandmother played "Hwatu", a Korean ancient card game.

I won four games in a row, which was super fun and rewarding.

Then as I became worried about her pleasure in playing games,

she won other four games in a row, which was kinda boring to me.

But it felt like God's consideration to make it equally exciting for both of us. 




I came up with several things I wanted to do with her out of blue, very randomly.

After we figured out that it is too painful for our backs to continue this fair game, 

I started to unpack the clothes I brought.



A beanie hat.

Pink crochet mittens.

A red Christmas-like cardigan.

White simple but elegant home dress.

Black stretchable training boots-cut pants which were too short for me but a little bit long for her, which turned out to be pretty fashionable luckily. 


As she changed her clothes, once mine,

I couldn't help but take dozens of pictures of her, saying "Gosh you look so good!! Pretty!!!"

Then she said that I am just like my aunt, her daughter, who also took so many pics saying that she looks so good.


I asked what colors she likes the most. 

She said that when she was younger, she preferred gray, navy, and white.

Now that she likes some colors that are brighter and more vivid. 


As they say, it seems true that the older we get, the more we are drawn to colorful colors.

Maybe it is because we manage to make an older version of ourselves to be eye-catching a bit more,
longing for others to look at them like a dazzling moon in the night sky. 

I am determined to be the one who can stay interested and attentive

to those who are shed by other rowdy blinding creatures.


Although they wear achromatic colors,

I wanna be the one who can recognize them easily so that they can stick to their original tastes in color.





The next round of our playing was to flip over the old albums that were stacked under the hanger.

I don't know exactly why I started to fiercely take out all the heavy dusty albums,

which were almost ten think books.



First, it was my father's graduation photo book from his elementary school.

He seemed quiet, kind, and a little nervous.

But despite that, he had glaring eyes straightly looking at the camera lens
with the lifted eyebrows that hinted at quizzical or innocent curiosity. 

I loved that deer-like eyes.



Then I opened his high school photo album.

It took a while to find out his class, which was the number fifteen. 



His class teacher seemed like a nice person.

The class quote for all said,

"By knowing myself and taking my path, walk along unceasingly."



And my father got changed glances.

Two big round-shaped eyes turned into two differently sized eyes just like mine.

Then I noticed I might also have gotten two differently shaped eyes just like him.



Among all his classmates, he stood out as a tall, skinny, and stiff guy. 

Then again, his genes have stayed inside me with my height and weight. 


In addition to my appearance,

I learned that my strengths came from him.


His student records written by teachers taught that.


It said that he is assiduous, amiable, and active. 

He is his own man and has the power of action and leadership.


I became proud of his youth.

I should have became earlier.


I also dimly recall that he has been fond of English itself.

The score for the English subject was A+.

It tells.

It remains in me.



Now that I think that it might be easier to find out what is not coming from my father in me.







Without a break, I grabbed other thicker family albums.

Out of five books, three were mostly from my father's younger time.

More than I expected, there were a bunch of various moments caught by anonymous photographers, surprisingly naturally and differently.




And there were remarkably a lot of photos from his military life.


When I was much younger,

I was told that my father got hurt his back critically in an accident.

I roughly remember that it was because of a huge iron stuff that was rolling down the hill and hit my father without knowing. 



I never considered it as serious as it should be.

He walked, wandered around, and worked normally, seemingly.

But now that I look back and reflect that he has struggled too much.



Because of the accident,

he has a chronic intervertebral disk.

It makes him suffer from long sitting, sleeping, or driving. 

He has been supposed to visit doctors regularly, done big surgeries, and deactivated involuntarily.

He has lost his confidence as a husband as I remember him saying that he does when he got drunk.


He is a man of national merit.

I took it for granted even though I graduated from the university without paying any tuition.

Now that I feel that this is unfair, which is annoying and sad.




I felt weird in reading my father's faces that seemed joyful, confident, and energized in the military.

In the pictures, he was exercising with the horizontal bar, playing ping pong, romping with his friends, playing guitar, and standing straight with arms on his wrist with determination.


I thought that I would never show him this album.

Because if I were him, I would feel sentimental from the involuntary effort that I have managed to forget and move on although it was full of sparkling moments with my friends. 



Looking closely at different scenes,

I captured that he had played ping-pong way before than I expected from the high school

and he also went on fishing also back then. 

He was even playing the guitar and went camping.


It was heart-warming that he has continued most of his favorite stuff with joy for a long time.

I might also have his genes to enjoy those stuff that I have never tried.

Who knows? I will definitely try someday somehow.



When he looks at the camera, his confidence reflects mine that pops up in front of a camera.

When he dressed up in the pictures, his charms and confidence in fashion resembled mine.

It seems that he was so natural and bold that it must have been easy for photographers to catch the moments.



Can I bring that smile and daring of his back to my lens?

I legitimately hope so.



Maybe it won't be turning back.

The original energy of his.




It makes my eyes blurry.




But I believe that there are too many marks in me to deny his originality and identity.


Whenever I burst into laughter, I will remember his big playful smiles among his friends.

Whenever I strive for my dreams, I will remind myself of his integrity and diligence.

Wherever I go and stay, I will gain courage from his effort to fight back against hardships to save my life.

Whatever I confront with pain, I will appreciate all the firmness and delicacy
freely granted by his ineffaceable genes and unforgettable love from him.





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This afternoon, he drove me to his office as I wanted to go to a cafe.


During the conversation, when I reminded him of the message I sent to him last night that I want to have chicken with beer with him, he said that he has quit drinking for a month.

I was surprised and shortly felt touched and blissful.

It felt like a euphoria.



I remember my grandmother complaining about him entering the house in the middle of the night due to the night fishing lately.

I took it lightly thinking that he just have a new hobby or became tired of playing ping-pong.



He never bragged about quitting drinks. 

And then he naturally reported that modestly.


I am so proud of him.

I mean it.


He became more gentle, affectionate, and thoughtful with me.

I feel like he is on his journey in regaining his true self.

This version of himself suits him way more.

I knew he is a person that I admire.

The only thing I wish is for God to comfort, praise, and save him from all the old burdens and pains.



It has been imprinted on me.

Once he called me and said with a drunken voice that

he does believe in God's existence but he is afraid of him who must be angry at him.


Whenever I recall that, my heart breaks and my soul cries.


I adore my father.

I appreciate my father.

I aspire for him to be genuinely free in God's protection and perfection.

And I do believe that God's eyes have been on my father with love and sorrow.



I imagine His albums that God has collected from my father's life.


The moment he was born, crawled and gurgled.

The moment he fell down and rose again.

The moment he cried silently in solitude without knowing that God was there with him.

The moment he met his daughter for the first time with indescribable joy.

The moment he hated and punished himself even though God already forgave him.

The moment he felt rewarded and confident in the study or sports with talents God had given.

The moment he first prayed and lastly prayed.

The moment he was suffering from nightmares and emptiness as he was blinded from God's love.

The moment he was proud of his daughter's life just like God is proud of him.

The moment he thanksgave to God because of his daughter.

The moment he loved people, cared for people, and cried for people who God brought into his life.


And every moment he thought of God, felt desperate in God, suffered far from God, rested in God, sensed God's dimmed presence in life, and every tear, laughter, ups, and downs in God's companion.




Just like I have never acknowledged my father's youth, passion, and love from the old albums,

my father is not aware of God's albums about him and his life.


It is evident that God has loved him and God has been with him

just like I can see that my father has been inside of me.



I have been on the journey of looking into the albums that God has created only for me.


I sincerely hope

one day

my father will be able to figure out what God has done, felt, and prepared for him. 



I will try harder with sincerity in praying for my father's journey to discovering His albums.

I can't wait for us to share the story of matching a lot of lost pieces of our life puzzles through God's grace and love that has led us to this point with plans and purposes.



I firmly know that God already has worked his plan for my father to fall in majestic love from God.


It will happen 

at the right time, 

in the right way, 

and with his best will. 



Maybe, it's already happening:)



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