A prayer for the Happy Meal

The church bell rang nine times. The pigeons that had been enjoying the morning sun on the roof flew up all at once into the gray sky. Though they scattered at first, they soon lined up at perfect intervals, flying toward another roof in beautiful order.

There was a McDonald’s right next to that church. Having grown up watching neighbors cross themselves as they walked past the church, my child would do the same with his tiny hands whenever we passed that McDonald’s. Then, he would look up at me with longing eyes—a silent plea to have a Happy Meal.

Did the little one already know that his mother’s pockets were empty? Instead of throwing a tantrum, he would just quietly cross himself three or four times. Perhaps he was praying to God to help his mom and dad make a lot of money, so he could eat all the Happy Meals he wanted.

Now an adult, my child never visits McDonald’s, no matter how hungry he is. Sometimes, I catch sight of his back as he stands in front of a nice restaurant, looking seriously at the menu. Watching him from behind, I often wonder with a tender heart: Is he still crossing himself in his mind right now?

When my child was praying for a Happy Meal, my heart was just like that of a mother in the old days, pouring fresh water into a bowl at dawn to pray for her family. Was it just about asking for blessings? Surely, it was through the strength of those deep, devoted prayers that those mothers raised their children and supported their husbands.

Years ago, during a trip to Mexico, I walked into an old church in the city. A woman in worn-out clothes was holding onto the railing of a sacred statue in an empty hallway, her shoulders shaking as she sobbed. Looking at her heartbreaking back, the image of our own mothers and grandmothers praying at dawn flashed through my mind.

Even now, when I walk through busy Manhattan and come across a church, I am drawn inside to sit in the very back row. The deep silence within the dimly lit church comfortably wraps around my tired soul. Watching the backs of the people praying silently, their deep longings reach my heart, and I find myself becoming truly humble and reverent.

I feel the exact same way when I sit in the main hall of a temple near Jongno, watching women offer their prayers to Buddha. There may be a difference in the lighting of the room, or a cultural difference between East and West, but the raw reverence of human prayer is exactly the same, whether in a church or a temple. I always sit there for a long time, wishing with all my heart that all their deep prayers will come true before I step outside.

This daily prayer continues at home. Even while washing dishes, I stop when I see the bright red geranium poking through the green leaves by the window, and I offer a prayer of thanks. I do the same when I open my eyes in the morning, and before I go to sleep at night. Every single path of my life—everything I see, hear, feel, and think—is simply filled with gratitude.

I am not a religious person. However, I went from a place where I couldn't even buy my child a simple hamburger meal to a place where I can now comfortably look at the menu of an expensive restaurant. How could this possibly be the result of my own efforts alone? Believing that there has been a great, nameless protection gently watching over my life, I cannot stop offering my deepest prayers of gratitude today. Thank you for everything.