In the early 90s, when I was state leader of South Carolina, I got a phone call from a church sister. She told me about her younger sister Rebecca, who had joined the church, struggled a lot and left. Since then she had been married and had children, but now she was thinking of coming back. She gave me her phone number. I went out to visit Rebecca in the town she lived in, in an apartment just like the hundreds I had fundraised in. I just asked her how she was doing and let her talk. She poured out her struggles, experiences good and bad, her hopes and fears. Over several visits, she talked everything out. She was considering how to return. One day, as I was leaving, she wanted to give me something. The only thing she could find in her apartment was a bag of apples she had just bought.

I was in New York Church when Rev Song took over. He was a tall, burly, charismatic guy. He’d been the leader of a kid’s gang on the hill in Pusan where Father and Won Pil Kim built a hut out of cardboard. The kids harassed Father at first, then came over to his side and helped him. Anyway, there were all kinds of Korean leaders. Some would tell you how to clean your car’s engine with a toothbrush. I was on the front desk at 43rd street HQ when Rev Song came by. He sniffed the air and I heard him say “Spiritual smell….good”. Then he smiled and walked away. A few minutes later a whiff from the kitchen hit me and I realized he’d really said “Pizza smell…..good.” My sleepy night shift at the front desk was interrupted the next morning by rapid footsteps coming down the stairs at 3am. Rev Song trotted by and out the door, followed quickly by Roddy Joyce, our Aussie general affairs brother.

When I was on my own in 1977 selling IL Hwa wholesale during the day and fundraising in the evening to cover expenses. I ended up in Cherry Hill, New Jersey a little after 5 pm. It was too late to try to find any health food stores and the town had such a nice name that I decided to start fundraising a bit early when I saw a cluster of brick apartment buildings. Unfortunately, no one spoke English and no one had money. I believe they were very poor Russian immigrants – only women were home.Finally after about 30 minutes with only one donation of 25 cents, I met a woman who spoke English. She asked to see some ID, and I showed her my church ID card in my wallet. She took my wallet, invited me inside, and called the police. Then she asked me to sit and wait “while we get to the bottom of this.”