As many of you know, I recently returned from a holiday in Korea. It’s been a week since I came back to Vancouver, but I’m still feeling the lingering effects of jet lag. Recovery has been slower than usual, and I wonder if it’s because of the intense heat I endured, or perhaps it’s simply that I’m getting older, and bouncing back takes a little more time.

The trip was amazing, even adventurous! Despite the unbearable heat and humidity, with temperatures soaring to 34-35 degrees Celsius, I ventured to several cities in the southwest region of Korea, including Mokpo and Jindo Island, and hiked a few mountains, such as Yudal Mountain in Mokpo and NaeJang Mountain in Jeongeup. It was a time to rediscover the beauty of Korea’s landscapes and the rich flavours of its cuisine in the land of my birth, the soil that holds my beginning.

It wasn’t my idea to visit those places. My younger daughter, Michelle, had a deep desire to reconnect with Korea, the country where she was born and raised until she was five and a half. Her limited ability to speak Korean had become a source of vulnerability for her, and two years ago, she began planning this trip as a way to rediscover her roots.

But most importantly, I was able to spend precious time with my mother, who turns 91 next month. The three of us talked, laughed, ate, and shopped together. This was the heart of the trip for me — the part I had waited two years for. I longed to see how she was doing, and to my relief, she was doing well!

She attends a seniors’ day care center three times a week, from 9 am to 5 pm. She lives alone in her apartment and manages her life with impressive discipline. Every Tuesday, she recycles carefully, sorting paper, plastic, and organic waste, and brings everything to the communal collection area. Honestly, she does it better than I do! Even though her day care bus arrives at 8:30 am, she’s always ready and waiting by 8 am. At night, she never forgets to lock every window. Her apartment is spotless. Everything was in order, and I was happy.

But that wasn’t the whole story.

As the days passed, I began to notice another reality. One evening after dinner, I saw my mother talking on the phone, clearly enjoying the conversation. But when I asked who she had been speaking to, she couldn’t remember. Her short-term memory has been deteriorating. She confused eggplant with zucchini. She couldn’t identify people in old photo albums. She didn’t even recognize herself in her wedding picture, taken 71 years ago.

Her memory loss was as clear and undeniable as fire on a mountain at night.

It was the first time that I felt overwhelmed by fear and sadness. I cried on the flight home. One evening, she acknowledged her condition. She seemed to have spent a lot of time reflecting on herself. She said she didn’t want anything more from life, except for one: that she had no grandson or great-grandson, only granddaughters and a great-granddaughter on the way. I wasn’t surprised. She has always favoured boys over girls.

It was a jarring realization, a collision between the real and the surreal. No wonder my body is still slow to recover. I believe it’s not just physical exhaustion that lingers; it’s the emotional weight of it all.

One evening during a family dinner, I was asked to say grace. I managed to go through the prayer, but I was fighting back tears. I mentioned my mother, the backbone of the Yoo family. And I thought to myself: when she leaves us, how are we going to carry on? The emotion was raw and has stayed with me. Perhaps it’s because I live so far away and only get to see her once a year at best. Or maybe it’s the regrets—I want to talk to her every day, but I can’t.

I still remember how she used to say, “Speak to me. Let’s talk,” whenever I finished washing the dishes. And yet, how often I turned away, distracted by something I thought I had to do. Deep inside, I longed to pray, but all I could manage was a simple, repeated plea: “God, have mercy on my mother. Help her. Help us.” Without even realizing it, I had been searching for how to pray, like the disciple in today’s Gospel who asked Jesus, “Lord, teach us to pray.”

Origen, the great 3rd-century theologian and teacher in Alexandria, once asked, “If God already knows what we are going to ask, why pray at all?” His answer was profound: God chooses to work through our choices and our voices. If God intends healing, reconciliation, or transformation, our prayers become part of the process that brings it about.

So we must pray, not to inform God of our needs, but to participate in God’s will. Origen even said: Let Jesus pray in us. It is not we who pray, but Christ who prays within us. But how?

There’s an old story of a monk who was constantly distracted by mice during prayer. To solve the problem, he brought a cat into his prayer room. But he never explained why. Soon, all his disciples began keeping cats in their prayer rooms too, believing the cat was the secret to powerful prayer.

We often do the same, thinking there must be a special technique to prayer. In today’s Gospel, one disciple is curious about Jesus’ prayer life. Jesus responds with what we now call the Lord’s Prayer, then shares a parable about a friend knocking at midnight. Jesus urges us to ask, seek, and knock. The keyword here is persistence.

Prayer requires patience, perseverance, and trust. Jesus makes it clear: prayer isn’t always answered quickly or in the way we hope. Even Jesus’ own prayer in Gethsemane—“take this cup from me”—was not answered as he wished. St. Paul prayed for his “thorn in the flesh” to be removed, but it remained. And yet Jesus says: “Ask, and it will be given. Seek, and you will find. Knock, and the door will be opened.”

So how do we make sense of that? We begin by understanding what prayer truly is. Prayer is not magic. It’s not about using the right words or formulas. It’s about relationship, persistence, and surrender. It’s not about getting what we want; it’s about receiving what God gives.

There is a difference. What we ask of God and what we receive may not be the same, because God’s wisdom often surpasses our understanding.

Consider Monica, the mother of St. Augustine. She fervently prayed that her son wouldn’t leave her side and travel to Italy. But while she prayed, he was already on the ship. It was in Milan that Augustine met Bishop Ambrose, whose preaching led to his conversion. Monica didn’t know that Ambrose was the one best equipped to reach her son. Years later, Augustine looked back and realized that while God said “no” to his mother’s immediate request, God had answered her deeper prayer: that her son would become a faithful Christian.

Prayer is mystery. In times of sorrow, confusion, or helplessness, we may not have elaborate words. Sometimes, all we can do is whisper, “Help.” And that, too, is prayer.

So, whether we are filled with joy or weighed down by the burdens of life, whether our words flow freely or won’t come at all, let us remember this: God is listening. God is near. And Christ prays within us, even when we cannot pray ourselves.

And here is the answer I have come to receive: even when the physical body fades, the spirit is held by God. Even when we are separated from our loved ones, we are connected in spirit. We all dwell within God’s grace. No matter where we are, we remain in the care of the One who calls us beloved.

So, let us trust that even our halting, tearful, whispered prayers are part of the divine unfolding.
This summer, I invite you to your own Prayer Project. Ask, Seek, Knock. Let us be open to what God may give, especially when it’s not what we expected.

In doing so, may the Holy Spirit, the greatest gift of all, be given to us in God’s perfect time. Amen.