This year’s Christmas service was held specially at Grace Spring Church. Amid the dignified atmosphere characteristic of Presbyterian churches, I had expected the lackluster hymns and the elder’s solemn prayer, reminiscent of a lecture during elementary school assembly. Sure enough, it was unmoving. As I sat there, watching children either staring blankly with mouths agape or flicking their phones with their fingers, my inner conflict was building. Just then, I noticed an elderly man on the left bench raising his hands during the hymns. His hand wasn’t just briefly raised to keep rhythm; it remained lifted high toward heaven throughout the entire hymn, resembling Moses raising his hand toward the sky during battle. Seeing this, my heart found peace and gratitude welled up. I resolved to join in the spiritual battle myself, raised my hands in praise, and firmly held my son’s hand sitting beside me. I encouraged him to join in the singing, helping us both focus on the service.

But eventually, I had to take my son, who had closed his eyes and started dozing off, outside to watch the service on TV. I sat next to a child who was already sitting outside. That child was from an orphanage, visiting a foster family for the Christmas holiday. Perhaps because it was his first visit to this church and he knew no one, or maybe he found the worship service too tedious to endure, he sat alone in a corner outside, looking rather forlorn. As we chatted about this and that, I looked out the window. It was a White Christmas with snow falling heavily, and the white snow piled up so beautifully. The pastor mentioned in his sermon that it was the first White Christmas in eight years, which made it feel even more special.

I went to take a commemorative photo and noticed three picture frames hanging on the wall in the stairwell hallway. They were of the pastor and church members who had died in unexpected accidents at a young age or while on missionary trips. Among them was a brother who had tragically lost his life after being kidnapped by the Taliban, an armed group in Afghanistan. It had been so long ago that my memory was hazy. I recall the anger I felt back then toward the incompetent state that failed to rescue its citizens, mixed with criticism of the church for sending missionaries to such a dangerous region. At the time, I was attending a Korean church in the US, and even our senior pastor expressed regret, saying traveling by large bus in such a hazardous mission field was reckless.

However, as time passed, the incident gradually faded from people’s memories. Yet, during a chance visit to Grace Spring Church, a transcendent encounter with those individuals resonated deeply within me, becoming an opportunity to reflect anew on the meaning of Christmas. Before the death of Jesus, who died on the cross in place of humanity’s sins, it seemed as if only the love of the cross remained in our memory—rather than anger toward Roman imperialism or condemnation of the Jews who drove Jesus to crucifixion. Against the backdrop of white snow, the faces of the martyrs smiling in the blue sky seemed to flicker before my eyes.