The importance of grace for one's parents

Han Jin-kyung

The author is a Won Buddhist minister at The Signum Haus Cheongna of Won Buddhism’s Cheongna Temple.

Not long after I became a Won Buddhist minister, I once visited the home of a deeply devout follower. While I was chatting with the older woman, her daughter called. The mother and daughter spoke affectionately for quite some time. The daughter, the wife of a business executive, was busy beyond measure, yet no matter where she was, in Korea or overseas, she never missed a day of calling her mother at the same time to check in on her.

I thought to myself, “That is something worth emulating. At least a phone call is something I can do.” So I called my mother right away. She was delighted to hear the voice of her daughter after such a long time. The next day, I missed the usual time, but I did not forget to call. The conversation was not very long. How much could there be to talk about after just one day? On the third day, I remembered only as I was getting ready for bed. What I had dismissed lightly as “just a phone call” turned out to be difficult — not only finding the right time, but calling every single day.

Older adults are lined up at Love Car’s free meal service station near a park in Dalseo District in Daegu on May 7. They were also given carnations on the eve of Parents' Day. [YONHAP]

But there was an even harder problem than managing my own heart: managing my mother’s. I had lived as a minister-daughter whom she heard about only from afar, believing that “doing my part as a public servant is filial piety.” When such a daughter suddenly called three days in a row, my mother seemed to worry that something had happened before she could feel glad. No matter how many times I told her nothing was wrong, that I had simply matured and wanted to be a little more filial, her worries did not seem to go away. She apparently called my older sister and asked her to find out what was going on. My wish to be filial had instead caused my mother needless concern. In the end, I decided that if I could not be filial, I should at least not worry her, and my attempt to call every day ended as a three-day episode.

That brief experience led me to reflect on the meaning of filial piety. Won Buddhism teaches that all beings are connected through relationships of grace. Even the most foolish and ignorant person instinctively feels and cannot help but acknowledge that not a single day can be lived without heaven and earth, parents, fellow beings and laws. These four are called the Fourfold Grace — the fundamental graces without which we cannot live.

Among them, it is not difficult to recognize the grace of parents. Because our parents existed, this body was able to come into the world. It was also through their grace that they raised us when we had no power of our own, taught us the duties and responsibilities of being human and led us into human society. Therefore, to the best of our ability, we must repay that grace by bringing peace to their hearts and minds and by caring for them physically.

Furthermore, because we know we received our parents’ grace when we were powerless, the path of repaying parental grace is to protect those who lack the power to stand on their own, as far as our strength allows, and to care even for the parents of others as we would our own. To become someone who benefits the world and brings honor even to one’s parents’ name — that, we are taught, is the full completion of filial piety.

As I reflected on how much I am living in gratitude and repayment of grace, I suddenly remembered a letter my mother once gave me. In Won Buddhism, the first stirring of the heart toward renunciation is described as

kkotbal sinsim,

or “flowering faith” — a phrase that compares the initial aspiration to leave home and enter religious life to the pure and beautiful heart of a flower coming into bloom. To her daughter, whose flowering faith had begun, my mother wrote a letter, filling each word with love.

“Originally, Jin-kyung, you were not my daughter. You leaned into my arms to take shelter from a sudden downpour, but before we knew it, the pouring rain stopped and bright sunlight shone upon us. So go now, Jin-kyung. Walk joyfully the path of the Buddha that you must walk. My beloved youngest daughter.”

A family spends time on a beach in Gangwon on April 13. [YONHAP]

“Jin-kyung, become a great mountain. Become a vast, high and broad mountain, a famed mountain with deep valleys, and hold all the beings of the world in one embrace. Do not become a Buddha alone, but become a great Buddha together with all the beings of the world. Become a great Buddha on a towering, magnificent mountain. I will become the clean, clear water flowing through the deep valley of that great and lofty mountain, and I will always keep that large and beautiful mountain moist. My beloved youngest daughter.”

Whenever I think of my mother’s letter, I realize that what she wished for me was not filial devotion directed toward her, but a life lived as a true renunciant. And yet, I have still not fully lived up to that wish. Today, after a long while, I should call my mother.

This article was originally written in Korean and translated by a bilingual reporter with the help of generative AI tools. It was then edited by a native English-speaking editor. All AI-assisted translations are reviewed and refined by our newsroom.