It was 45 years ago during the Japanese occupation of Korea, and Ikkyu, aged 23, was a teacher at a small private elementary school in a farming village, four miles from the nearest town.
Ikkyu had recently resigned from a good teaching position at a prestigious school in town. People wondered what had made him do such a foolish thing, but Ikkyu didn’t explain.
Ikkyu had a very important reason. In those days, Japanese officials built at least one Shinto shrine in every town in Korea. And, they made Koreans, including school teachers and government employees, bow to it.
Twice a month, on the first and 15th, the school where Ikkyu had formerly taught required students to go to the nearby shrine. They were accompanied by the head teacher and the principal.
One day, the school changed its policy and required that even homeroom teachers had to accompany the pupils on their twice-a-month journey to the shrine.
Ikkyu realized there was no escape from then on. He immediately contacted school officials at the village school and expressed his interest in teaching there.
They were delighted and invited him to come as soon as possible. Ikkyu felt fortunate that he was able to change his job before his turn to go to the shrine arrived.
Ikkyu had never considered himself to be a good Christian, but the thought of bowing his head to the shrine was unthinkable.
So, he put up with the inconvenience of walking to and from the school, four miles each way, as there was no transportation to the village. And, when rains came in the summer and the river waters rose, he took a ferry boat, his pants rolled up and his muddied shoes and socks in his hands.
Still, he was happy because he didn’t have to go to the shrine and the boys and girls at the village school were good to him. He forgot about his aching feet when he saw his students.
In the mornings, the students always came to school early. They climbed up a rock mound dubbed "Kwan Hae Dae" (Sea View Stand), behind the school and waited for Ikkyu to arrive.
From Kwan Hae Dae, the students could look out onto a long stretch of flat land, perhaps a mile or more all the way to two rivers.
The first student to see Ikkyu appear over the plain shouted, "Teacher is coming," and ran as fast as he could to meet Ikkyu. He was followed by others.
Ikkyu had been at the village school for 12 months, when he had to change his job again. One afternoon, a big package arrived at the school. When the school principal opened it, he saw a portable Shinto shrine. Ikkyu promptly submitted his resignation and quit the school.
A few days later, three of his students paid him a visit at home, carrying an envelope. They looked very sad.
"We are sorry you left the school," said a letter, written in pencil and in Hangul (Korean characters) on a sheet of rough notebook paper, with square boxes, used by primary school pupils. "We are very sorry you are no longer with us. Chook."
Attached to the letter was a small package wrapped in the same rough notebook paper. Someone had used a piece of cloth, cut from a well-worn "chogori gorum" (the ribbon used to tie the Korean woman’s blouse), to tie the tiny package.
When Ikkyu untied the ribbon, he saw coins—many coins. A piece of paper tied to the package contained a long list of names with the amount of money along side it—5 chon (pennies), 10 chon, even 25 chon.
Ikkyu was overwhelmed. He was so moved, he sobbed, hot tears falling on the ondol floor of his room.
He wanted to keep the letter with him all his life. But during his countless moves, dictated by chosen destiny, Ikkyu lost the letter.
The letter is gone, but the memory of the letter and those village boys and girls linger in his mind, to this date, nearly half a century later, as if it happened yesterday.

Joo Han Kang, who ran a business in San Francisco, previously taught English at the Seoul National University and German in other institutions in Korea. He died in May 1998.