One of my grandmother's most poignant sayings, according to my mother, was: "Old people have to die, but young people can die." I have endeavored to keep this timeless truth in mind even in my teaching. I follow Prof. Richard Hughes' example and seek, as one of my principle objectives in each class I teach, to convince my students that they are going to die.
I do this not to be morbid, but instead to urge my students always to remember that we are limited beings; to remind them that each of us is here upon this earth for only a brief time. In the words of wise Solomon, our lives are but a breath, a mist that rises in the morning and soon disappears.
The ancient Roman teacher Seneca spoke similarly to his students: "You are living as if destined to live for ever; your own frailty never occurs to you; you don't notice how much time has already passed, but squander it as though you had a full and overflowing supply -- though all the while that very day which you are devoting to somebody or something may be your last. You act like mortals in all that you fear, and like immortals in all that you desire."
I had only last week reminded my students of the brevity of life and the certainty of death, but when I spoke those few words I had no idea that their concreteness would be brought home to the Handong community so soon.
It was just this past Saturday when nearly all of the students and faculty were away from campus with their families celebrating the Korean Thanksgiving -- the fall festival called Chuseok -- that a few students remained around campus. Saturday afternoon the weather was balmy. Three Korean students, all upperclassmen looking forward to graduation in the coming months, decided to take a walk along Chilpo Beach after lunch.
As they walked along the sandy shore a large wave suddenly rushed in upon them and pulled them out toward the sea. Two were able to hold on to one another and make their way back to the shore. The third, though, could not overcome the undertow and was pulled into the deeper waters where tragically he drown.
I learned of the student's death from my teaching assistant, Younghoon Mok. Younghoon was a close friend of the young man. They both started their studies here at Handong together in the same small group and had become good friends over the years. Younghoon told me that he had received a call from his friend just two hours before he took his walk with his two companions along the beach.
I cannot begin to describe the somberness that has settled upon this campus. Students and faculty alike are pondering the brevity of life. In my classes this week, I've urged my students thoughtfully to reflect upon Moses' words in Psalm 90:
So teach us to number our days that we may get a heart of wisdom.
I do this not to be morbid, but instead to urge my students always to remember that we are limited beings; to remind them that each of us is here upon this earth for only a brief time. In the words of wise Solomon, our lives are but a breath, a mist that rises in the morning and soon disappears.
The ancient Roman teacher Seneca spoke similarly to his students: "You are living as if destined to live for ever; your own frailty never occurs to you; you don't notice how much time has already passed, but squander it as though you had a full and overflowing supply -- though all the while that very day which you are devoting to somebody or something may be your last. You act like mortals in all that you fear, and like immortals in all that you desire."
I had only last week reminded my students of the brevity of life and the certainty of death, but when I spoke those few words I had no idea that their concreteness would be brought home to the Handong community so soon.
It was just this past Saturday when nearly all of the students and faculty were away from campus with their families celebrating the Korean Thanksgiving -- the fall festival called Chuseok -- that a few students remained around campus. Saturday afternoon the weather was balmy. Three Korean students, all upperclassmen looking forward to graduation in the coming months, decided to take a walk along Chilpo Beach after lunch.
As they walked along the sandy shore a large wave suddenly rushed in upon them and pulled them out toward the sea. Two were able to hold on to one another and make their way back to the shore. The third, though, could not overcome the undertow and was pulled into the deeper waters where tragically he drown.
I learned of the student's death from my teaching assistant, Younghoon Mok. Younghoon was a close friend of the young man. They both started their studies here at Handong together in the same small group and had become good friends over the years. Younghoon told me that he had received a call from his friend just two hours before he took his walk with his two companions along the beach.
I cannot begin to describe the somberness that has settled upon this campus. Students and faculty alike are pondering the brevity of life. In my classes this week, I've urged my students thoughtfully to reflect upon Moses' words in Psalm 90:
So teach us to number our days that we may get a heart of wisdom.
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