Haunted Cemetery 🪦👻
CHANG: 🦇 CRAZY 🎬
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ROOM TO GROW 🥬 🎬
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Bok Choy 🥬 🎬
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🎬 Crazy Bananas 🍌 SCARY HORROR FOR MATURE AUDIENCES ONLY ⚠️
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HAUNTED CEMETERY 🪦👻
“He’s here.”
Not our son is here.
Not Scott is here.
Just—
“He’s here.”
And there I was.
I had come to help, as I had so many times before.
My father was outside working in the yard. My mother was making kimchi. I carried in a box of fresh bok choy and set it down.
“What do you want me to do next?”
It was an ordinary question.
Looking back, maybe it wasn’t.
For much of my life, there always seemed to be something next.
Something to carry.
Something to fix.
Something to clean.
Something somebody needed.
And I kept showing up.
My parents came from another world—an agrarian Korea where life could already be difficult before war made it terrifying.
They knew scarcity.
They knew what it meant when food was not guaranteed. They lived through a war in which bombs fell and tomorrow itself could feel uncertain.
I did not.
I inherited the stories, but not the hunger.
Perhaps that’s important.
Because the strange thing about fear is that it doesn’t always leave when the danger does.
Sometimes it survives.
Sometimes it saves.
Sometimes it accumulates.
And sometimes, long after there is enough, it still whispers:
More.
I tried to understand that.
I still do.
Understanding, however, does not make everything painless.
There were criticisms.
Demands.
Arguments.
Things I couldn’t agree to.
And eventually there was something harder to explain.
Rejection.
Sometimes I wondered whether I was carrying anger that belonged somewhere else.
Maybe I was.
Maybe I wasn’t.
Families have strange ways of passing burdens from one person to another.
I only knew how it felt to be the one carrying it.
And somewhere along the way, everything got murky.
Like a swamp.
Love and obligation.
Compassion and boundaries.
Understanding someone’s past without allowing that past to excuse the present.
I couldn’t always tell where one ended and another began.
So perhaps that’s how I ended up in the cemetery.
At least in my imagination.
It was a ridiculous place.
Skeletons stood among the headstones as though they owned them. Some bowed. Some pointed. Others simply stared with empty sockets while mountains of money rose behind them.
Cash everywhere.
More money than anyone could spend in a lifetime.
And there it was.
A lifetime.
Jesus once told a story about a rich man whose land produced so much that he ran out of places to store everything.
So he decided to build bigger barns.
He would store it all away and tell himself he had plenty for years to come.
But those years never came.
His life ended that very night.
And then came the question that has outlived the man:
Who gets everything now?
Standing in my imaginary cemetery, the answer seemed almost comical.
Nobody takes it.
The dead don’t need bigger barns.
They don’t need bigger houses.
They don’t need another dollar.
And suddenly all those skeletons standing around mountains of money looked less frightening than absurd.
Maybe that was why I laughed.
Sometimes humor is the only sensible response to something that has become completely senseless.
But the cemetery wasn’t really about money.
And it wasn’t really about my parents.
It was about what I was still carrying.
The questions.
The comparisons.
The hurt.
The desire to understand why people do what they do.
And that stubborn question that can follow a person for years:
Was I ever enough?
Then Julius, an elder at my church, gave me another way of looking at things.
He knew people struggling with aging parents too. People change as they grow older, he told me. Sometimes illness is involved. Sometimes memory changes. Sometimes we simply don’t know everything another human being is going through.
But Julius understood something else.
Rejection still stings.
Then one day he shared something with me.
It wasn’t a Bible verse.
A friend had sent it to his smartphone, and Julius passed it along to me:
“The rejection of people cannot remove God’s calling for your life.”
I kept coming back to those words.
Maybe because I needed them.
Maybe because I still do.
And then something happened that I couldn’t have planned.
Days before this story existed, I had made a little video clip.
“This I know.”
Then Julius says:
“Hey, let’s go.”
Know.
Go.
And then:
“We have a lot to do. A lot to get done.”
At the time, they were just words in a scene.
Now they sounded different.
I won’t pretend to know why certain things arrive when they do.
I only know how I received this one.
Keep going.
Maybe I will never completely understand my parents.
Maybe they will never completely understand me.
Maybe some questions aren’t answered.
Maybe some ghosts aren’t defeated.
Maybe you simply stop feeding them.
So I looked around that haunted cemetery one last time.
At the headstones.
At the skeletons.
At those ridiculous mountains of money.
And I realized something.
I didn’t have to take any of it with me.
The money stays behind.
The graves stay behind.
Even the ghosts stay behind.
But the calling stays with me.
I know.
So let’s go.
HAUNTED CEMETERY 🪦👻 🎬
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Yeah… 🎬
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Let’s Go 🐑 🎬
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🎬 BLAST OFF! 🌭🥬👩🚀👨🚀🐒🚀
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🎬 Rocket 🚀
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