Three days ago, before beginning my wife’s renewed round of chemotherapy, I went to a shop to purchase some nutritional powder for her. There, in one corner, I happened to notice an 88-key electronic keyboard. Wondering whether it might be for sale, I asked about it. The shopkeeper explained that the children had spilled water on it, damaging the sensors, and that they intended to throw it away. Curious about what its inside might look like—and with a faint hope that it could perhaps be repaired—I offered to dispose of it for them. They gladly handed it over.

In these days, when it is not easy to manage my own mental state, I have been looking for small strategies to drive away distracting thoughts. So, as soon as I returned home, I tested the instrument. I prayed for a small miracle, that simply resting my hands on the keys might bring forth sound. The power came on. The volume was raised. I pressed a key. Nothing. In that moment, I thought, “How am I going to get rid of this piece of junk?” Still, I kept pressing buttons here and there. Then, to my surprise, music suddenly began to play—the pre-programmed demo track.

At once, a thought flashed through my mind: Perhaps it can be repaired. I turned to YouTube, learning about disassembly, removing keys, checking sensors, cleaning, and so forth. For about an hour, I carefully took it apart—focusing on the area where the water had seeped in. I removed more than fifty keys, exposed the sensors, cleaned and dried them thoroughly, and even reconnected each tiny cable one by one with care.

I tried again. Still nothing. I almost gave up. Yet, as I was stepping away, I noticed a mysterious connector tucked away in a corner. It did not seem to match any part of the sensor board. Since the keyboard was not working anyway, I had nothing to lose. Examining the circuitry more closely, I discovered—hidden under what looked like tape—a small socket. I connected the cable, pressed a key… still nothing.

Disappointed, I glanced again at the volume control. To my embarrassment, it was set at zero. Quickly, I raised it to the middle level. And in that instant, a miracle happened—the rich sound of a grand piano filled the room. In Korean we say, “ShimBattDa(심봤다)!”; in English, “Eureka!” My heart leapt with joy, lifted by this small but wonderful triumph.

At that very moment, I sensed a gentle encouragement that spoke directly to my present circumstances. Even when family and ministry feel hemmed in on every side, there may yet be another hidden “connection” from the Lord. The message impressed upon me was clear: do not place your trust in people or in secure environments, but look to God’s vision and obey Him faithfully in the present moment. With renewed determination, I resolved to do just that.

Later, in a small booklet, I came across a definition of time: “The time that will not return is memory, and the time that is yet to come is hope.” With that thought, I am learning to embrace the present—not with despair, but with hope that patiently waits.

https://youtu.be/kCfZtVL59Jc