auld lang syne.

Dear Omma, 

You commented to me recently that sometimes, life doesn't give you what you expect or think you want, but sometimes it does give you exactly what you need.

You were only 18 when your own father passed away unexpectedly, and instead of going to nursing college like you had planned, you stayed at home to help Halmoni with the store. As your friends went off to school and met their husbands, you told yourself that you would never marry a store owner, knowing the challenges firsthand. You also became a second parent to your younger siblings, and on your 25th birthday, the oldest of your younger brothers asked you to spend your next birthday with another family, his way of asking you to find someone to marry. 

Another life wish of yours was poetry and although you may not have gotten to teach or write full-time, your talent resulted in one of your poems being published in a literary magazine. This poem was like an analog dating profile, and you received many letters in response (including one from a tae-kwon-do instructor, you noted), but there was one that stood out. Dad was in the habit of sending "good job!" letters to writers whose stories and poems he enjoyed, which included you/your poem (swipe right!). 

You liked his letter too, you told me, so you wrote a response to Dad and started a correspondence that would span two continents (with you still living in Incheon, Korea, and Dad living in the U.S.). Over the next ten months, you and Dad got to know each other, relying on just your words, stories and postage stamps. You grew fonder of each other, both sight unseen and voice unheard, having never exchanged a photo or even talked on the phone. 

In December 1975, Dad was planning a trip to Korea...a prodigal bachelor's return of sorts, with family and friends preparing to introduce him to their single daughters and nieces. Originally due to land on December 23rd, his plane was re-rerouted due to snowy weather, disappointing the hordes (his description!) of women who came to meet him. His plane arrived a day later, on Christmas Eve, to only one woman waiting for him at the airport. 

Your first impression of Dad? Eh...too skinny, too dark. You told yourself that looks didn't really matter; but Halmoni's approval did. Fortunately, both Halmoni and your siblings also saw the side of Dad you had come to know through your letters. With their blessings, you agreed to marry. He had only one question for you, whether you wanted any wedding jewelry, which you politely declined...a response Dad would later tell you was the only one he would have accepted. 

You were married on December 31st, 1975, just a week after laying eyes on each other for the first time. After your wedding, you took the train to Pusan for a brief honeymoon, but because it was New Years Eve, there were no hotel rooms available. So you spent the night in a coffee shop, finally talking and getting to know each other in person. At daybreak you wanted to sightsee, so you hired a taxi driver, a man who would go on to become a minister and who would later meet your kids when you brought them to Korea. You left your home in Korea and moved to the U.S. just 6 months later, and my older brother Josh was born a year after that. 

Even after 42 years of marriage, you and Dad still hold hands while watching TV together. You worked alongside each other as store owners for most of your marriage, and now he takes you for your biweekly chemo and rubs your back when you're sick from the chemo. When you were too ill to be at church, Dad would sit in the pew silently crying, not knowing what he will do without you. You gently teased him for his tears, and are patiently teaching him chores while also insisting that out-living Dad is the best way to take care of him. 

Happy Anniversary, Omma and Appa...I love you both and wish you many more. 

For long ago, my dear...we'll take a cup of kindness yet.