Happy Meal

The church bell rang nine times. Pigeons basking in the morning sunlight on the rooftop flapped noisily into the gray sky. Though they scattered at first, they soon flew in perfect formation, gliding toward another rooftop with orderly grace.

My child, who grew up watching people make the sign of the cross in front of the neighborhood church, used to do the same every time we passed the McDonald’s next to the church. Then, they would look up at me with pleading eyes—asking for a Happy Meal. Did my child know I couldn’t afford a hamburger? They never begged, just made the sign of the cross two or three times. Were they praying to God, asking for their mom and dad to make enough money so they could eat a Happy Meal?

Now grown up, my child never eats at McDonald’s, no matter how hungry.
Sometimes I see them standing in front of an expensive restaurant, studying the menu with a serious look. And I wonder—are they making the sign of the cross again?

Back then, when my child prayed so earnestly for a Happy Meal, I, too, prayed just as earnestly—like old mothers who used to place a bowl of water out and pray with all their heart. Didn’t those women raise their children and care for their husbands with the same devotion they put into their prayers?

Years ago, while touring Mexico City, I stepped into an old, worn-out church. There, I saw a poorly dressed woman in an empty hallway, holding onto the railing beneath a statue and sobbing quietly, her shoulders shaking. In her desperate prayer, I saw the image of my mother and grandmother, praying over bowls of water in our home.

When I walk through busy Manhattan, I sometimes step into a church and sit quietly in the back to pray. The deep stillness and gentle darkness bring me peace. As I watch the backs of those praying, their earnestness becomes my own—and I find myself becoming reverent without even realizing it. I also pray when I sit in a Buddhist temple near Jongno, watching the women offering their prayers. The setting may be different—dim lighting, cultural contrasts—but the sincerity is the same. Whether in a church or a temple, the earnestness feels no different. And as I sit there, I find myself quietly hoping that all their prayers come true.

Sometimes, I pause in the middle of doing the dishes to offer a prayer of thanks, looking at the bright red geranium blooming through the green leaves outside the window. I pray in the morning when I open my eyes, and at night before I go to sleep. Everything I see, hear, feel, and think fills me with gratitude.

I am not a religious person. But how could I not feel thankful, having come from a time when I couldn’t buy my child a Happy Meal to now being able to treat them to a meal at a fine restaurant? It wasn’t only my own effort that brought me here. There must have been some unknown grace or care watching over me—and this belief keeps me offering quiet prayers of gratitude.

Thank you.