guys
“Alright guys — Bible time!”
Every night possible, for as long as I can remember, my dad would call out from the living room, his voice full of energy and routine.
That simple sentence carried weight. It wasn’t just a call to read scripture—it was an invitation to dive into philosophy, science, psychology, and family.
I was usually curled up with a book or pretending to do homework when his voice echoed down the hallway. My siblings and I would shuffle out—reluctantly on some days, curious and excited on others. But regardless of how we felt, once we gathered in the living room, something magical happened.
We’d sit cross-legged on the carpet, surrounded by old devotionals, psychology textbooks, and the smell of my dad’s half-finished coffee. Sometimes there’d be a leftover cookie from someone’s snack or a pencil we forgot to return to our backpacks. It was never perfect—but it was familiar, comforting, and completely ours.
My dad, a psychiatrist by profession and a natural storyteller at heart, would flip open the worn-out leather Bible—the one with scribbled margins and neon sticky tabs poking out at odd angles. He didn’t just read the Bible—he unpacked it. One verse at a time. And every passage became a window into the mind.
If we were reading about fear, he’d pause and say, “Did you know the amygdala controls how we process fear?” If the topic was forgiveness, he’d explain the psychological burden of resentment. He had this way of connecting scripture to science seamlessly, without making either feel less important.
He never pushed his views on us. Instead, he’d turn to us with that spark in his eyes and ask, “What do you think it means?” That question changed everything. It made the Bible not just something we heard, but something we thought through. I learned to see contradictions, nuances, and possibilities. I learned how to think.
I remember one night we were reading about King Saul’s jealousy toward David. My older brother said Saul just seemed insecure. My dad nodded and said, “That’s actually really accurate. In psychiatry, we talk about narcissistic injury—how someone who feels threatened might lash out to protect their fragile self-image.” I had never heard a Bible character described in those terms. It startled me—but it made perfect sense.
There were nights I didn’t want to go. Nights I felt too tired or too upset about something that had happened at school. And yet, strangely, those nights were often the ones that stuck with me the most. The verses felt heavier. The talks dug deeper. And my dad’s quiet attention meant more.
Looking back, I realize those nightly conversations were my first introduction to psychiatry—before I even knew what the word meant. My dad never said, “I’m teaching you how to analyze human behavior.” But that’s exactly what he was doing. Whether it was Cain’s impulsive anger, Elijah’s depression, or Peter’s fear-driven denial, every story became a case study.
But the greatest gift wasn’t academic. It was the way those moments made us feel seen. My dad wasn’t just a doctor at work—he was our guide at home. He used his knowledge not to lecture, but to listen. He’d ask us how a verse applied to school stress or friendship drama. He connected faith with mental health, showing us that even in the Bible, people were flawed, anxious, overwhelmed—and deeply human.
Through those conversations, I began to understand that mental health isn’t about being “strong” or “weak.” It’s about understanding ourselves, being honest, and growing. I learned that empathy isn’t just feeling sorry for someone—it’s understanding the fear, trauma, or sadness behind their actions.
Most importantly, those evenings taught me that healing happens through connection. I saw it in how my sister began opening up about her social anxiety. I saw it in how we could disagree on a passage and still laugh five minutes later. I saw it in how my dad created a safe space for us to question everything without feeling judged.
As I grew older, I started to realize how rare that kind of family dynamic was. Friends told me their parents didn’t talk about emotions or faith—or if they did, it felt rigid and uncomfortable. But in our home, faith was a dialogue, not a directive. Psychiatry wasn’t a diagnosis—it was a way of seeing people more clearly and compassionately.
Now, when I think about what shaped me the most—not just as a student or thinker, but as a person—it’s not textbooks or grades. It’s the voice of my dad, asking gently, “What do you think it means?” It’s the blend of Scripture and science. The balance of faith and reflection. The deep belief that understanding the mind can bring people closer to each other—and to something bigger.
And I know this: even when he’s no longer here, that voice will never leave me. His nightly talks—part sermon, part science lecture, part heart-to-heart—have carved themselves into the rhythm of my thoughts. They’ll echo every time I face a moral question, comfort a friend, or wonder why we do the things we do.
Long after the last Bible session has ended, his lessons will keep teaching me. Not in a classroom. Not in a clinic. But in the quiet corners of my heart, where his words still float like a steady whisper.
It was never just about psychiatry. Never just about Scripture.
It was about presence. Understanding. Love.
And that kind of teaching never dies.
By: Hayeon Son
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