By the beginning of 1947, I’d been away from my hometown for over seven years. I reflected often on the role my parents played in my upbringing and the opportunity they’d given me to pursue the path of Buddhist practice. I felt a strong desire to demonstrate my deep gratitude. There is, of course, nothing so profound as the care and affection of parents for their children. Without the care and love of my parents, who would have fed me when I was young and tended to me when I was sick? My parents looked after me when I didn’t know what was going on around me and couldn’t fend for myself. They raised me and taught me how to speak and think for myself. And, of course, they introduced me to Buddhism. Now that I’d had a chance to put the Buddha’s teachings into practice, my heart had come to realize an amazing happiness. All of this was made possible by the power of deep parental love. Honoring my parents for all they did for me was the least I could do to repay their constant care and affection. Due to my chosen vocation, I had never succeeded in giving them wealth and security like a good, faithful son normally would. Instead, I had what I considered to be the best repayment of all to offer them: I wanted to teach them about the wonders of Buddhist practice and help instill the Dhamma securely in their hearts. By coincidence, at that time, I happened to meet a monk from my hometown who informed me that my mother was sick. And so it seemed appropriate that I return home and visit my parents. I also felt the absence of Ajahn Lee in my life. He taught me many inspiring Dhamma lessons and pointedly steered me in the direction of Ajahn Mun. I sincerely hoped to meet up with him when I returned. With these aims in mind, I began the long trek from the Northeast region back to my hometown in Chanthaburi on the southeast coast, a walking distance of over 400 miles. I covered the whole trek on foot by the quickest route possible, camping out in dhutaṅga fashion along the way. Traveling in those days was arduous because the dirt roads were in a constant state of disrepair. Few motor vehicles even attempted to traverse those poor conditions, leaving the muddy, pot-holed tracks to foot traffic and bullock carts. When I finally arrived in Chanthaburi, I took up residence at Sai Ngaam Forest Monastery, the place where my life as a monk had begun ten years before. When my parents heard of my return, they rushed to the monastery to greet me, crying while asking me how I was and why I hadn’t kept in touch with them. They said they had no idea whether I was alive or dead. “You should have at least let your mother know that you were still alive,” my mother said with tears streaming down her cheeks. She wiped her eyes as she looked at me reproachfully. I reminded my mother that she had cried when I left home seven years before, so now that I was safely back, why was she still crying? I chided her that if I had continued to stay home that whole time, she would probably have cried even then. I advised her to let go of the past. I was back now, and that was all that mattered... My mother sat still, listening and blinking her eyes as they welled up with tears. She spoke to me about her failing health and how worry and concern had made her miss me even more. “Had I died before setting eyes on you again, I would have been distraught. When I’m feeling sick, I cannot help thinking about my children. Should any of them be unaccounted for, I’d be beside myself with grief.” Then with a timid smile she asked, “By the way, what did you learn from Ajahn Mun when you stayed with him?”