Santa Claus Lane was idyllic compared to Koreatown. It was about a third of a mile long, lined on both sides with mature deodar pines and protected at both ends by stop signs. A sign that said dip stood at its middle, right outside the Parks’ house. Had Mr. Park’s English been more proficient he might have taken it as a slight—he was always touchy—but linguistic prowess and malice being absent, everybody lived peaceably.

He remained nervous around black people but decided that settling down in what their realtor called a “mixed neighborhood” would be the best way to assimilate Rosemary—and her soon-to-be-born sister Miracle—into the American way of life. Besides, before buying their careworn bungalow, he’d counted the number of churches within its two-mile radius and come up with thirty-four. Black people of faith didn’t scare him, not even the singing kind.

In the years immediately following the riots, Mr. Park withstood stares and taunts from all kinds of people while doing simple chores around town. Once, a black woman threw a carton of sour milk at him while he was filling up at the gas station. But he rarely feared real trouble. His faith in God grew stronger by the day, and with his savings he started his own ministry, All-Friends Worship, the local chapter of a vast Korean evangelical network whose flagship was a literal cruise ship docked in Gyeonggi Bay.

All-Friends Worship was a blue clapboard Victorian with an improvised, concrete slab extension. It looked as if a semi had backed into a strip mall, dropped off some old granny’s house, then vamoosed. Not that aesthetics mattered to his flock. There were small pockets of Koreans, refugees from the riots, scattered around the San Gabriel foothills, and for many of them, Mr. Park’s church was the one place they could meet others of their own kind and speak uninhibitedly in their own language. For the women of this type, All-Friends became a home away from home. They came to church to compare their children’s test scores and exchange crockpot recipes; they discussed gaming the discount racks at Macy’s and how to find the one sales rep who would speak Korean if her supervisor wasn’t around. One enterprising woman even started a Texan line-dancing club, whose sessions boldly collided with Bible Study Thursday.

Because of these women, Sundays at All-Friends had the chatter level of a fish market back in Mr. Park’s home city of Pusan. When it didn’t bring him nostalgia, it brought him the shivers. Because of these women, Mr. Park decided against letting his daughters learn Korean. Korean inspired a henhouse insularity in women that he didn’t want his daughters to have. Whereas with men, Korean was a stabilizing force—it was blood, gave them identity. It was not something they clung to out of desperation because they feared all else.