Son,

A sage once said
that unless you become like children,
you cannot enter heaven.

That sage, I'm certain,
never raised a child.

You, at two years old,
playing in the playground,
break away from the group
to spot an ant
wandering alone.

You step on it deliberately,
lift your foot to look,
and laugh with delight
at the lifeless ant.

You smile
as if savoring your supremacy,
as if celebrating your accomplished goal.

You don't know
that a single life
will never return
to its friends and family.

And yet they say we must become
like children to enter heaven?

At a Starbucks
near the foot of Bukhansan Mountain,

While your mother and I
discuss our future budget,
you approach a little girl your age
wearing a pretty dress.

You kneel before her, take her hand,
and flash your signature killer smile.

We watch you, amused,
until a sudden alarm makes us stop you.

Because without warning,
you're leaning in for a kiss.

The girl's father's expression suggests
he'd like to grab you by the collar.

Your father, no fighter,
apologetically scoops you up and leaves.

You thrash and wail in protest.

Oh, how children cry—

You cry when denied a snack.
You cry when I won't show you videos.
When your carefully stacked
rainbow-colored blocks tumble down,
You howl and torment me.
What wrong have I done?

I point to the window,
calling out random words
trying to halt your tears.

Look! A bus!
A bird!
A tree!

A pretty lady!

I glance nervously at your mother.
Your crying stops.

You throw the food
your mother lovingly prepared.
You tell your devoted father
that you hate him.
You snatch toys from friends
and spit on the floor.

And they say become like children?
That sage knew nothing of children.

Then, one day,

In the middle of a mall,
a child stands
crying so loudly
that everyone turns to look.

His father has given up.
It feels familiar.
Yet everyone walks past.

But suddenly
you run to that little boy.
And then,
you open your arms and hug him.

You pat his back, soothing him gently.

Your mother and I,
The boy's father,
The mall crowds—
We all stop
to witness
this beautiful moment.

I realize then how much room
children have to change.

Just a year ago
you only knew "woof-woof" for dogs
and "meow" for cats.
Now you sing the whole Tayo theme song.

Just a year ago
you could barely walk.
Now you run so fast.
It takes my breath away.

Perhaps what the sage
truly meant to say is
that we must grow
like children do
to see our heaven.

Yet remember:
Just as you now run faster
only to fall harder,

Just as growing taller
brings sleepless nights
of aching growing pains,

Every journey of change and growth
comes with failure and pain.

My son,

But do not cry.

It's a cliché,
but after this cold winter
warm spring will come.
After the darkest night
the bright sun will rise.

All this is part of change and growth—
This, too, shall pass.

As the subway doors open
and I squeeze myself
into the crowded car
on my morning commute,
I gather my thoughts this way.

We will have changed
and we will have grown
when this winter passes.

If we fall, we'll get up.
If we crumble, we'll rebuild.

Catching my faint reflection
in the heavily closing subway doors,
I silently cheer myself on.

So don't cry.

Let's meet soon
in our heaven,
better than yesterday,
more grown than yesterday.

See you later, son.
See you later.

From Dad.