For those of you not subscribed to Seasons of Community Living and haven’t heard my news, this post is for you. As I write this, I’m suddenly realizing that when I first began blogging, I had no idea that Korea would change my life. “Why Korea” has become “My Korea”. As always, thank you for reading, —Trudi.

I’ve anticipated writing this post for over two years. I want to introduce my best friend and future husband, Euigeon 의건, also known by his English name, Amos. (He is very excited to read this post!)

We met about five and a half years ago when I traveled to Korea for the first time. I was not a K-culture enthusiast in search of a husband. Rather, our church wanted a young person to go encourage and support a few families who were living in the Taebaek area and trying to find a more communal way of living. One of those families was the Choi family. Euigeon’s parents had recently become Bruderhof members, and his father still remembers driving into Myeongdong, Seoul with another community friend, to pick me up from the hotel where I had just completed two weeks of quarantine. (Remember COVID?) His dad recalls wondering at this tall, red-haired American girl who hardly spoke a word of Korean. No one but God in Heaven knew that I would one day be his daughter-in-law. As for me, twenty-three at the time, I never dreamt I would get married, let alone in Korea. But God is full of surprises.

Riding along in the van that Monday morning, I felt nervous but excited too. The drive from Seoul to Taebaek was a story in itself, but I’ll jump to the moment when I first met Euigeon. He and his mother were standing on the side of the street waving as our car passed by through their village. Later that afternoon, someone took me to the library in our village, and walking around a row of shelves, I almost bumped into the same young man. We both felt shy, but greeted the other bravely—I probably said Happy Birthday since I’d heard it was his birthday the day before.

Now I believe my arrival date wasn’t a coincidence. I think God wanted to give Euigeon a birthday present, even if he only recognized it as one much later. Our first meeting was not love at first sight, but it was definitely interest at first sight. We both admit we saw something special in the other, and we quickly became good friends. That was our genesis. . . .

Back to the present: a lot of my friends and readers have already asked me if we have a wedding date. The answer is yes, but only God knows when that is! We’re praying about it and trying to discern when the right time is. The challenge we have is that Euigeon is a conscientious objector to military service, which is required for all Korean men. Because he is not willing to serve in the military, he has to do three years alternative service, double the length of the usual mandatory military service. The alternative service takes the form of work in a prison—an hour’s drive away. His daily assignments range from kitchen work, pharmaceutical tasks, security, night watch, outdoor grounds care, shopping, etc. The alternative service members sleep in a dormitory, and their scheduled breaks and dorm rules reflect those of military barracks.

We’re not quite halfway through and the future is certainly daunting. It’s not easy to always be watching the clock when we’re together, calculating how much work, leisure, travel, or church activities we can fit in before it’s “time to go”. But we believe this is our path, and we’re grateful to journey together as much as possible. We treasure the days or hours Euigeon can get off the prison grounds. Luckily, he’ll finish in April 2028!

Yeongwol Community celebrated our engagement with great joy and energy. My parents are staying here for three months so the festivities were a lovely way to begin their Korean experience and get to know Euigeon and his family. Although my parents speak no Korean and his parents very little English, they manage to communicate quite well with Euigeon and me as translators. Technology helps as well. Music is also a beautiful way to connect and share our joy.

^{-a few lines from the song by 김동규 10월의 어느 멋진 날에}

So today as I write, it is one month since Euigeon asked me to marry him and I said ‘yes’. Let me describe the moment a bit:

It was Saturday afternoon and I knew this was the big day and since I imagined Euigeon had a romantic spot in mind, I was surprised when I got in his car and he asked me whether I wanted to go to Pyeongchang or Jecheon. I chose the latter. (Later, he told me that the proposal spot he had in mind—just as I’d suspected—was the top of Chiaksan Mountain (치악산). But he scrapped that idea as an hour of hiking would be too suspenseful).

Because of the hot, humid weather, our destination became “the first quiet place in the shade”. We walked quite a ways along a boardwalk bordering a lake, and soon realized that quiet and shade were hard to find. We were trailing a group of chattering grandmas, which amused me but annoyed my man. It was beginning to feel like Make Way for Ducklings in which Mr. and Mrs. Mallard search for a suitable place to live. Finally, Euigeon noticed another park-like place across the road so we crossed over to investigate. Perfect: walking paths, big trees here and there, and best of all, no people. He led me straight to a tree ringed by a stone wall; we dropped our bags, he took both my hands, and asked me if I would marry him. I said yes.

I don’t remember our exact words but we each testified to the other that God had brought us together, and that being together had brought us closer to God. And we definitely said “사랑해요, I love you”, words we’d been holding back from saying until that moment.

Then we knelt on the grass, clasped hands, and said a prayer of thanksgiving—not because someone told us too, but just because it felt so right.

Euigeon and I praise God for the gift of true love and for planting a seed that sprouted and grew over many seasons, finally to bloom in God’s time. Our joy feels like a brilliant oriental lily bursting into bloom in late summer.

Oh God, thou art too good to me! It is more than my heart can bear! To make men and women and give them to each other and not for one moment be jealous of the love wherewith they love one another is to be a God indeed.

-George MacDonald in Donal Grant

I’ve shared these lines in another blog but want to share it again. MacDonald found words that I would rather quote than try to express something I’m not sure I have the words for. God is an astounding God.

It’s a great gift to experience deep love between man and woman. Marriage, or for Euigeon and me, the promise of marriage, feels like an undeserved gift. I wish it for all my friends, even though I know that marriage can be as hard as it is good. We’re beginning a new phase of our journey together as we anticipate becoming husband and wife. Caring for each other’s souls changes us, and makes us tap into the well-spring of Life, so that we can comfort and encourage each other with the comfort we have received from God.

To conclude this very long post, I want to share a couple things I’ve learned over the last two years or more. First, having a soul-mate is teaching me to prioritize. Usually, my order of operations is “work first, people next”, but I’ve found that there are times when I have to stop what I’m doing, whether I’m in the middle of washing dishes or tending my vegetable garden. If I follow my heart’s promptings, and take time for the man God has given me, I’m filled with thanks and a desire to always remember that souls come before work.

Another thing I’m learning is that I come from a culture that has affected me more than I realized. Westerners like me feel free to speak our minds—at least more so than Koreans. I am working hard to soften my forthright manner, to question rather than criticize, and to basically be a nicer person. I welcome the challenge! Euigeon, who excels at being a nice person, recognizes the importance of verbalizing his feelings or thoughts in real-time. We are honest with each other when we feel hurt or get annoyed by the other, and it always makes our love even deeper. Maybe these are some of the challenges of a Korean-American couple, but I’ve always thought that the remedy for such friction is no different than any other couple might need: 1^st Corinthians 13: “Love is patient, love is kind”, and so on.

So that’s a brief introduction to my wonderful fiancé. I’ll be sure to give updates from time to time as the pages of life keep turning. I’ll keep writing as “Trudi Brinkmann”, and look forward with all of you to the day when the name changes to “Trudi Brinkmann Choi”.

That’s all for now. Hello from Euigeon and me, and have a lovely rest of your summer!

¹ reference: 2 Corinthians 1:4

I never really talked with my neighbors, guess I didn’t know what to talk about. But I always made sure to bow and greet them respectfully, especially since they are all in their upper seventies, if not eighties. This summer is different, though.

Every morning after eating breakfast and in the evening before the sun sets, I’m working in Yeongwol community’s two greenhouses. A few years back, I took care of the smaller one, but now I do the large house as well. It’s exponentially more work, but the triumph of harvesting a variety of fresh produce is worth it.

And suddenly, my neighbors talk to me. We have common ground finally.

Every couple days, a haraboeji or halmeoni (elderly man or woman) comes in while I’m working, praises my hard work, and exclaims over the fact that a young foreigner can grow vegetables so well. Of course, I clumsily converse and humbly explain that I almost killed all my pepper plants with straight Jadam Wetting Agent ( 자닮오일), so it’s a miracle they survived. (It’s an organic pesticide which I should have diluted in water. . . .). (Learn more about Jadam 자닮 here).

I love to hear from experienced farmers so I ask them all my questions, why are some tomato plants huge and others small, which plants benefit from a bit of extra nutrients, etc. I trust the advice: more water here, less there, trim off these leaves, harvest those. . . . Today one old farmer I talked to agreed that some of my tomato plants have some kind of disease. He is also fascinated with my basil plants—never heard of basil. I’ll have to invite him and his wife over for an Italian meal.

I have so much respect for small farm-owners. It’s a hard life and my own battles with pests and weeds, have given me understanding as to why organic gardening is rare to see. The weeds come up so fast I find myself thinking of that curse Adam and Eve brought upon themselves and us all. The soil drys out so fast, I find myself praying for rain. But despite the challenges of raising vegetables, there’s still a romantic side for me: I love the peace it gives me to have my hands in the dirt, and to witness the miracle of growth. I harvest 5-8 cucumbers morning and evening, always wondering how on earth the aphid-covered plants produce so well. I seed lettuce and several days later it actually sprouts. It amazes me every time.

I’m grateful to be a country girl, not a city-based tourist. People who visit Korea’s urban tourist attractions haven’t truly seen Korea unless they’ve ventured out into the countryside, picked up a homi, and got dirt under their fingernails.

That’s it…to read more enjoy my similarly-themed blog from 2022:

South Korea is known for its cosmetics industry. I could research this and give you facts, but I don’t want to. I’ve seen enough to know. Of course, makeup is ‘normal’ everywhere, but I think even more here.

I grew up in the Bruderhof, a place where generations of Jesus-followers have recognized the value of simple living. Our church is counter-cultural in every way necessary to truly follow what we read in the Sermon on the Mount. But we are not perfect. We have not arrived. We grow, learn, change, lose this, gain that, and humbly attempt to live in unity as brothers and sisters in Christ. It comforts me to read about Jesus’ twelve disciples. They were literally living with Jesus, but my goodness, they were dreadfully human—so are we.

But I will not dwell on imperfections. I trust in a forgiving God and want to strive each day to know Him better and live according to His commands.

So what is different about women in the Bruderhof? (I’ll let a man write about men.) Basically, as my co-writer Kacey Sycamore explains, outward appearance is of minimal importance. What matters most in a woman is the beauty of her heart. To hear some of Kacey’s perspective, I highly recommend reading her recent contribution to our Seasons of Community Living substack:

Seasons of Community Living

Growing into community

Welcome back readers, and welcome, new readers …

Read more

5 months ago · 25 likes · 9 comments · Seasons of Community Living

Unlike Kacey, I grew up in the Bruderhof, and makeup was for theater productions as far as I knew. I remember feeling so pretty in my junior high production of “Twelfth Night” by Shakespeare. Also, now that I think of it, when my sisters and I were elementary school age, we used to “dress-up” and clunk around the house in whatever attire made us feel fancy. Red watercolor pencils made wonderful lipstick and rosy cheeks.

Fast-forward to age 18

In university, I made good friends. I joined a small campus ministry group. And got to know a great bunch of people. We accepted each other’s different appearances and backgrounds, and loved each other for who we were. I’m forever grateful. But among all my wonderful friends, I realized how rare a bare face was for a girl.

What is more, instead of envying them or wanting to trade my head covering, button-up shirt, and long skirt for something more comfy and attractive, I had a feeling of relief. Imagining the pressure and financial cost of keeping up a beautiful face, hair, and fashionable wardrobe, made me thankful for my upbringing. Sure, I wondered if it wouldn’t be easier to look like everyone else, but I dismissed it because deep down, something told me that I’d found a better life.

Looking back, I’m amazed at myself. At that time, I wore a headcovering, glasses, and mostly plaid skirts; my few polos and T-shirts, plus a few pairs of modest pants or shorts reserved for exercise. I alternated between two sweaters, one windbreaker, a jacket, and two pairs of shoes. I definitely took care to color-coordinate my clothes, and I still do.

I’m not gonna lie, I often wished I looked more attractive. But I shrugged it off and decided to be strong in who I was. I’ve never been brilliant, but I was smart enough, and I knew my professors were surprised and impressed. Although inherently shy, I’d been raised to overcome myself and take an interest in others, so at least I had the ability to start conversations, talk to classmates, crack jokes, and show people that I was pretty normal, even though I looked like I came from a different planet.

So I went through college just the way I was.

Back to South Korea.

I was walking through Gangnam, Seoul with two friends. Korean cities have more signage than I could have ever imagined possible. High buildings rose up on either side of the street, with signs plastered on the fronts of every floor and protruding from each building. My friends pointed out that on this particular street there were at least three signs saying “plastic surgery” (성형외과). If you want to learn more about it, check out this blog from a more informed writer. And, yes, as I was walking through the city that day, I saw at least one person with a bandaged nose.

Neither of my two friends had had plastic surgery—I guess either they couldn’t afford it or they were content with their eyelids, hairline, and face in general. “Would you have plastic surgery?” they asked. I didn’t have to think long at all: I know exactly what I would change about myself if I could… but “No,” I said, “God made me, and I believe He doesn’t make mistakes. I don’t want to change what He made, so like it or not, I guess I’m okay how I am.” They laughed and agreed. We have to accept ourselves as we are and live fully and bravely.

Four years later, I still think the same. I’m still picky about photos and rarely see a photo of myself that I like, but what kind of person would I be if I looked perfect? Not being the prettiest girl in the room is a blessing. I want all young ladies like myself to let our true beauty come from God. I want to shine with His peace, love, gentleness, and faith.

So will I wear ugly clothes? No. (Except for work.) Will I still pay attention to my clothing, try to wear a sweater that matches my outfit, and choose bright flower-print skirts over darker colors or plaids? Yes.

As for head coverings, I have no problem wearing one; I just don’t have a particular conviction that wearing one will bring me nearer to God, and I tend to feel that it makes me seem unapproachable. I would rather have strangers feel comfortable around me, so that we can talk easily. I wear my hair simply, not wanting to spend too much time on it. (When my church decided to let head coverings be a choice, I chose to try life without one. . . except for when I cook, because where I live, if someone would find a black hair in the food, there’s no way of knowing whose it was. But if it’s a red hair—that’s different.)

Conclusion

So, to return to the words of David: “your works are wonderful, I know that full well”. I’ve always thought that God’s incredible creation shows that He is the designer of beauty, so beauty in itself is no sin. But I do not want to make beauty an idol. I want my life—every aspect—to glorify God. I’m still learning what that means, but one thing I know for sure is that God knows me and you, every detail. He loves us, His masterpieces. We are His beloved children, and we’re good, just as we are.

Interestingly, the Henri Nouwen quote that came to my inbox as I was writing this was the following (incidentally from one of my favorite of his books):

DAILY MEDITATION | April 20, 2026

A Beautiful Self

From: The Inner Voice of Love: A Journey Through Anguish to Freedom

God has given you a beautiful self. There God dwells and loves you with the first love, which precedes all human love. You carry your own beautiful, deeply loved self in your heart. You can and must hold onto the truth of the love you were given and recognize that same love in others who see your goodness and love you. So stop trying to die to the particular real love you have received. Be grateful for it and see it as what enabled you to open yourself to God’s first love.

“For it was you who formed my inward parts; you knit me together in my mother’s womb. I praise you, for I am fearfully and wonderfully made. Wonderful are your works; that I know very well.”

- Psalm 139: 13 - 14

예수님이 부활하셨네! Jesus rose!

If I share Good Friday, I have to share Resurrection Sunday. The grave was not the end for Jesus, He rose again. And I’ve been thinking what an absolutely glorious moment that must have been—at a cosmic level. Here on earth it was equally glorious, but the events of Sunday unfolded in a wonderfully familiar, human way: a weeping woman speaks to the risen Lord without even realizing who He is, two disciples on the road to Emmaus experience the same, one doubts until he has actually touched Jesus’ wounds, and there’s more. . . . I think God knows His children who—but for His grace—would miss the most important moments!

On Saturday night, as I vigorously scribbled a fresh picture for Yeongwol’s dining room wall, I kept thinking of the Easter story. I thought of Mary Magdalene. Jesus called her name, and she immediately recognized Him. Would I recognize His voice if He calls my name? I trust I would.

And the two that ran to the tomb, John and Peter. What thoughts must have been racing through their heads? If I know anything about the human heart, I know that when we want something badly, there’s a flame of hope deep inside. We don’t even know it’s there because “reality” makes hope so impossible. Same for the disciples: Jesus had died, He was in a tomb, it was over. But then Mary Magdalene came, and her words made their tiny flame of hope flare up into a blaze; Peter and John ran to the tomb.

Reading the news, standing by grieving people, encouraging friends who are battling illness, praying for it all: this is our life. There is so much Good Friday in our lives, and yet there is Resurrection too. Look for it, pray for it. Angels can roll stones away. One day every stone will be sent rolling. . . .

Lastly, I want to share one of Yeongwol community’s favorite songs from this Easter—just one of many. It’s originally a spiritual from the western hemisphere, but over here on the eastern end of things we’ve translated and love singing it! You’ll just have to imagine how it sounds in Korean. . .no recording this time, unfortunately. But enjoy the instrumental version below.

Plus a vocal version!

The continual thud of a jackhammer and occasional shouts from a crew of road workers echo off the mountain down to where three crude crosses jut out of a large pile of boulders. Today is Good Friday. Much of the world keeps going as always, but many people, I hope, stop to remember something that occurred centuries ago.

Today Yeongwol community stops our communal work, school, and usual schedule, to take in the message of Good Friday. At 9 a.m., we gathered in front of three crosses and a closed tomb. We sang and heard the story of Jesus’ last hours and death.

Nearby, fourteen small signs make a path to another small tomb. This one was made yesterday by two thirteen-year-old boys. It was their own inspiration and doing. Their families helped them set up fourteen “stations” for our community to walk by today. Join us as we appreciate the children’s work and remember how God’s beloved Son was willing to walk this path of suffering and die an unimaginably horrible death, for us.

We all—unlike His disciples at the time—can already feel a tingle of joy because we know that Christ’s death was not the end of the story. Wait with us now.

I’ve heard that in the past, heating school buildings during the coldest months was problematic, so having a long winter vacation was an obvious solution. Summer break—in between the two semesters—runs from mid-July to late-August. Weather-wise, that’s also smart: that’s usually the hottest, most humid time of year. Winter vacation also coincides with one of Korea’s major holidays—lunar new year, or Seollal (설날)—when families travel to their hometown or wherever their grandparents reside, to observe the traditions essential to the three-day holiday. That was this week, Monday to Wednesday. We celebrated well. The year of the horse has begun. . . .

So now it’s February. Today is warm, but until now it’s been steadily cold, which has meant a lot of fun on ice. The Pyeongchang River runs just in front of Yeongwol community and we can’t pass a winter without an “ice festival” with everyone—except our dear ninety-some-year-old Haraboeji who prefers sitting by a warm, indoor fireplace.

For some reason, we got an especially windy, cold day, and an especially bumpy ice surface. New sseolmae—썰매, ice sleds—were made for the occasion, and everyone from youngest to oldest, attempted to do some sliding on the ice. It was more of an upper-body workout, as you sat or knelt on the wooden board and tried to propel the sled forward with a pushing stick in each fist.

In between playing on the ice, we warmed ourselves around three fires on the pebbly river edge. We enjoyed tteokbokki (떡볶이, rice cakes in flavorful, spicy sauce), odeng soup (오뎅국, fish cakes on skewers in broth—street food style), soondae (순대, blood sausage), and tanghuru (탕후루) fruit —strawberries and peeled tangerines—coated in clear, crunchy candy syrup. An hour or more of merciless snowball fights, sincere attempts to slide along the ice on our sleds, lots of laughter and good food—that’s an ice festival. The moment when a thirteen-year-old pushed his luck and fell waist-deep in freezing water, or when a gust of wind knocked a whole fireplace over, pot of fishcakes, broth, and all. . . that makes it memorable.

Usually, the adults miss the fun. I spend most of my week doing activities with the kids. I learn Korean, they learn English—it works. Thankfully, there’s usually another adult who can communicate better than I. In between practicing and making props for our upcoming dramatic performance of Tolstoy’s “Ivan the Fool”, we go out and enjoy nature. Popular activities include: games of tag while ice skating, stamping along the edge of the river trying to break off chunks of ice, soccer, snow sculpting (only twice because we haven’t had much snow this winter), and “hounds and hares”—an outdoor game in which one team goes somewhere to hide, leaving a trail for the other team to follow. This afternoon, we tried a new method of tying bits of cloth to bushes and trees. When two kids and I crossed our neighbor’s land, the kind old Haraboeji (grandpa) looked quite surprised and wondered what on earth we were doing, tying cloth here and there. The kids cheerfully explained. . . .

So that’s banghak, at least in Yeongwol community. The rest of this blog consists of photos. Enjoy~

Ice is so fun!

Mid-January when the ice was a little smoother, we received a timely gift of second-hand skates, freshly sharpened and sent by a friend in Spring Valley community.

The realization that I’ve only written here a scant six times since I left Korea two and a half years ago, makes me wonder where to begin with this first of a new era post. Reading my last essay from six months ago makes me marvel how a future I saw so dimly was so clear to our God above.

I’m sitting at a table in a sunlit room, the second floor of a two-story building. Sliding double-layer glass doors lead on to a narrow veranda. Usually in winter I would keep both the clear and the frosted glass doors tight shut, but the warmth of the sun and the view is enough reason to slide aside the first door. I need more than blurry light for a view. I need to see the bare-branched trees, waving in the January wind, each twig catching the afternoon sunlight on one side. The silver-gold highlights stand out against a gray-green-brown backdrop. It’s the mountain that effectively prevents the sun from reaching us until eleven o’clock each morning. In summer, it’s more like nine o’clock, if I remember right, and it’s a blessing to have a few hours to get garden work done before the day becomes unbearably hot.

But it’s January now. The leftover snow from yesterday’s dramatic weather, seems to have stuck to the slopes of every northeast-facing mountain. If you’ve been to Korea, you’ll know that mountains are an inescapable part of the landscape. (At least I think so—if I ever travel to a part of Korea where there is not a mountain in sight, I’ll be sure to let you know). The mountainsides boast a thick layer of trees which today are subject to driving wind and so stand bare and brave, as if guarding the last dusting of snow beneath them. It’s beautiful—ruggedly so.

Yeongwol Bruderhof (영월 브루더호프) community, where I live, is on the inside curve of a bend in the Pyeongchang River (평창강). (Yes, it’s near Pyeongchang, where winter olympics were held in 2018). The mountain facing my house is higher than I remembered it being. Also closer—close enough that one of my friends, on a whim, sent a golf ball sailing over the river, to ricochet off the cement barrier and high fence holding the steep mountain side in place. The ball bounced down to the road that runs along the base of the mountain, and rolled off somewhere. (Needless, to say: not a good place to hit golf balls.) The said road, follows the contour of the river, as do most country roads. I’m still getting used to driving here. Seems like if there’s not a speed bump or a traffic speed camera, there are curves enough to slow any driver down.

But before this post gets lost down some country road, I ask you to consider this post’s title: “Where’s home?”. Is home the place where you were born, or where you were raised, or where your parents live, or where you spent most of your adult life until now? For me it’s none of those. I think home is just wherever God has planted my feet for now. If, as some say, “home is where the heart lies”, then I want my heart to be attuned to where God wants me, and go there and be there.

So Why Korea remains a humble place where I’ll write my thoughts from time to time. Perhaps my experiences in my Korean home will inspire you in your home, wherever that is. Blessings for 2026,

-Trudi
트루디

Korea became home for me. I loved its natural beauty, the language, the culture, the food, and most of all, the people. I believe that one day God will guide my steps back there, but I don’t know when.

So I guess this blog is also about waiting on God. It’s about accepting what God is giving me now, and not pining for what He hasn’t. I’ve realized that it’s a struggle common to all of Christ’s followers: we have to surrender our own wishes and recognize that God’s will is best.

But as I read from Amy Carmichael yesterday, “To accept the will of God never leads to the miserable feeling that it is useless to strive any more.” (From a beautiful article on Plough entitled “Embracing God’s Will”) In my own words, accepting the will of God leads to peace and joy that nothing else can give.

Of course, coming to a place of acceptance takes a fierce struggle. Why? Because I cling to my own ideas and doubt His love. I want to write my own story, but what a relief when once again I give the pen back to God and say as Mary did, “here I am, Lord, may it be with me according to your Word”.

So while I wait and pray for the day when God guides me back to Korea, I am choosing to see what He’s doing right here, right now. The relationships I formed in the two years I spent in Korea have endured separation. Thanks to technology, I can stay connected with friends and families I lived with or met there.

Additionally, a bit of a Koreatown atmosphere has developed in the Bruderhof community I live at in Pennsylvania. There are enough of us—Koreans or Americans who spent a few months or years in our Korean community—that we like to keep a supply of kimchi in our communal kitchen and occasionally get together to prepare traditional food for ourselves or the wider community.

I love hearing my Korean brothers and sisters communicating freely in their own language. I try to speak in Korean as well, although I’m far from fluent. When I’m invited to one of their houses, I feel completely at home and value our conversations. Now I realize the blessing of those two years in Korea, and I thank God for opening my eyes to a new culture and people to love and learn from.

For the duration of the four-day trip, I never knew what would happen next as Teresa and her friend were decades older than I and spoke Korean quickly and in a dialect. Two nights and one day in a small house surrounded by vast tangerine orchards was eerily quiet and spending the last night with another acquaintance in town was a relief. Both times, a thin mat on the floor sufficed for a bed. I remember walking down the roads among orchards, hoping that perhaps I would find a convenience store—I needed coffee of some kind. No luck, just tangerine orchards and quiet houses. Forty-eight hours into the trip I finally managed to buy some Kanu instant coffee packets (Maxim is not my favorite).

I couldn’t figure out if our hostess was a relative or a friend, but she was certainly the most lively seventy-year-old I’ve ever met. The only English word I heard her use was “hello”, and that’s how she got my attention. I was certainly the first American to stay in her home and she immensely enjoyed it. Her kindness touched me.

I couldn’t stand upright at the kitchen or bathroom sink (the extendable nozzle of which doubled as a shower—I was used to that but not the low ceiling). And yet the absurdity of it all is delightfully memorable.

An unexpected treat was the opportunity to hike Hallasan Mountain (한라산), a shield volcano in the center of the island. Our host said it was easy and she’d just done it the day before and she’d drive us to a trailhead. We couldn’t refuse.

And the volcano itself. . . .

One of my favorite ways to eat:

And then came coastal exploration:

My experience of Jeju Island was unique. As lonely as it was, I simultaneously appreciated the privilege of staying in a small country house and wandering the narrow, wall-edged roads. Just as I could physically lean into the incredibly strong wind at the top of Hallasan Mountain, I found I could lean into the beauty of the island, and turn my thoughts to God. Jeju Island is a gem, a special part of Korea.

We all called him “할아버지” which is “Grandpa”, and when necessary we specified by adding his last name “Oh”. I never used his first name so it was a long time before I could remember it. But when I did, I tried saying the name the way his mother might have said it: Jahwan-a (자환아), and I could imagine him as a young boy in Kaeseong, now North Korea. Oh Haraboeji was born in 1935, ten years before the end of Japanese occupation. Did he ever have to use a Japanese name? That’s a question I still need to ask. . . .

I always loved my own grandparents, especially my “Opa” Hugo Brinkmann, who lived from 1915 to 2011. Now as an adult, I’ve always wished I could have talked with “Opa” and asked about—it would have been more like shouting since he was rather deaf by the end—his ninety-six-year journey of life. German was his native language but he mastered English and married a British girl —my dear grandmother Margery Smith. Opa learned several languages quite well. I wonder if he would have enjoyed studying Korean as much as I do. I know he would have loved to hear about Korea.

I did not get a chance to talk with my Opa and ask all my questions. When I met Oh Haraboeji in Korea, I saw in him the grandfather whom I still wished to learn from, and I was immediately curious about his life. Of course, language was a barrier, but at my request, I and others were lucky to hear Haraboeji tell some of his memories on a few different occasions (Haraboeji’s son kindly translated). A young audience and one or two questions were enough to get two fascinating hours’ worth of memories.

My Opa had hard things in his life. Like Haraboeji’s, his life was too full to describe in one blog. He never met his father who was killed in the First World War. Opa’s widowed mother rejoiced over the birth of her son and bravely raised him on her own. Arrested as an “enemy alien” in England during World War II, Opa spent the rest of the war in an internment camp in Canada. His life was spared.

On the other side of the globe, and a few years later, teenage Jahwan was one of the young Koreans who survived the horrific Korean war. Like any from his generation, Haraboeji knew hardship. Now, he prefers to tell his adventures, but I’ve heard tidbits of the tough stuff. Often when I saw Haraboeji smoking and quietly staring off into the distance, I wondered what he was thinking. He looked lonely.

Two men grown old and weathered by many years: different continents, different characters, and yet something wonderfully similar: an obvious love for those around them, a strong work ethic (coupled with an independent streak), and plenty of sugar in their coffee.

Haraboeji, you didn’t know it, but you did what my Opa would have done for me: you let me make your iced coffee (was it sweet enough?). You greeted me with a smile and forgave my linguistic limitations. You complimented me on my cooking (I know it wasn’t perfect). You treated me like your own granddaughter. (One time at a restaurant you kept giving me more food, wanting to make sure I had choice bits of meat). And on my last weekend in Korea, you invited me to a cafe with your family. When I left last August, you let me hug you goodbye.

At the end of May, Haraboeji’s birthday will be celebrated with his family as well as all his “adopted” children and grandchildren around him. I wish every ninety-year-old had such a family.

I’ve seen it all my life (or at least ever since I got glasses in the third grade). But I still remember the feeling of looking up and seeing it sandwiched overhead between the tops of two apartment buildings in Korea. I was standing in the long, narrow parking lot that separated my building from its equally shabby twin. That one had a view at least; my apartment’s view was that building’s backside. Both were five floors, four stairwells with two apartments at each landing. No elevators.

I’d come in from an evening walk, my way lighted by street lamps and my loneliness distracted by seeing a few people here and there outside the convenience stores and diners. But distractions are just that and I had returned home still restless.

Until I saw the Big Dipper overhead. Its position was perfect, its presence so familiar. I smiled—I couldn’t help it. For at least a few minutes I stood and felt something indescribable: I think it was a sense of belonging.

To what, to where. That didn’t matter. To whom was important, and it was God.

A couple of months later (I think it was) I was camping under the stars, this time in upstate New York. I settled into my sleeping bag, looked up and my gaze rested on it again: right overhead, seven stars, 북두칠성 Bukduchilseong, I thought. It’s here too. I almost shivered—certainly smiled—as my mind flashed back to the parking lot in Taebaek, Korea. I am at home everywhere, I thought.

Later, I saw it in Yeongwol, Korea.

And most recently, I saw it in Pennsylvania.

Perhaps the One who knows all things knows how to give us unshakable moments of home, of love, of belonging, even (or especially) when “home” has lost physical meaning. For millions of refugees across the world, home really is lost. A loss much more than my sentimental “loss” could ever be. Do they ever find comfort in familiar dotted patterns shining in the night sky?

Always, 북두칠성 the Big Dipper has made me feel at home, no matter where my feet are planted. I’m thankful for those seven stars.

I hope you see them too. I hope it makes you smile.

And to my readers in the southern hemisphere: I know, I’ve been there too. You have your own beloved constellations. Fortunately, we share the same moon. That’s the topic of another blog. . . .

Today is October 31st, Halloween on my calendar.

A year ago I was in Korea, and I remember waking up on Sunday morning, October 30th, and seeing the headlines on my phone. Itaewon Halloween party turned tragedy, almost 160 young lives lost in a crowd crush. I had the opportunity to visit the site exactly one week later. I wasn’t sure what I would do, but I knew I needed to go.

I brought my violin with the hope of expressing my condolences in a genuine way, and a way that would bring comfort.

I still wish I could somehow comfort grieving families and traumatized survivors. My prayers are with them today.

I’d like to share my last year’s substack with you:

Here, too, is the story of young Koreans who wanted to give comfort and grieve alongside strangers: The Grief of Itaewon.

One doesn’t discover new lands without consenting to lose sight of the shore for a very long time.

I read these words from Andre Gide when I was considering returning to Korea for a longer stay. My first three months had been overshadowed by COVID and I figured things could only get better. I was still apprehensive. Could I last that long in Asia? But I knew Gide was right. When my church asked me to go to Korea again, I was glad for the opportunity.

After a total of two years in Korea, I’m back in the Western world and a very white one too. I look enough like the people around me that perhaps they think I feel at home and am breathing a sigh of relief to be back from an adventure in a foreign land. Many welcomed me “home” again.

Family and friends live here and it’s been wonderful to meet them again. I chat freely in English. We joke and we laugh and I realize humor comes easy in our mother tongue. It feels good, relaxing. I enjoy those moments. Anyone who has left their native culture and language and then returned after a period of time will know the feelings.

But like a wave that froths joyfully and then in sudden silence sinks into the sand, a moment of laughter becomes that of seagulls and I can’t escape the feeling that I’m far from home.

Korea is my hardwon home, a lived experience of good days and bad days, a journey with mountains and valleys. I miss too much to name. That’s obvious. But most of all I dearly love and miss people.

When I first realized that I might actually go to Korea, a poem from high school literature class came to mind. It must have left an impression on teenage me, because it’s the only one I remembered from our poetry studies.

George Gray

by Edgar Lee Masters

I have studied many times
The marble which was chiseled for me--
A boat with a furled sail at rest in a harbor.
In truth it pictures not my destination
But my life.
For love was offered me and I shrank from its disillusionment;
Sorrow knocked at my door, but I was afraid;
Ambition called to me, but I dreaded the chances.
Yet all the while I hungered for meaning in my life.
And now I know that we must lift the sail
And catch the winds of destiny
Wherever they drive the boat.
To put meaning in one's life may end in madness,
But life without meaning is the torture
Of restlessness and vague desire--
It is a boat longing for the sea and yet afraid.

This poem is in the public domain.

I used to love this poem and shudder at the “restlessness of vague desire”. More recently I’ve wavered. Missing what you love can hurt. But deep down I know that pain with a name is better than undiagnosed symptoms. A risk-free life is no life at all.

So I tell myself and I would tell you, put up your sails and don’t be afraid to let the winds of destiny (or God’s Guiding Wind) take you. You will be blessed.

Ironically, two of the images included in this blog are farewell cards that I received when I left Korea a few weeks ago. How did they know?

The pictures hang on my wall now and remind me of how to live.

I wrote an article for Plough, and I wanted to share it with you here on substack:

From This Side

Seventy years after the Korean Armistice Agreement was signed, an American living in Korea reflects on the divided nation.

After reading, enjoy some bonus photos.

Above, on the right, is “Haraboeji”, whose presence reminds me that Korea was not always two separate countries, and that South Korea as I know it is very different from how he knew it.

A tank passes just meters behind us as we sing and pray for peace. The threat of war is not imaginary but prayers for peace are never futile.

We (all who attended) walk to the base of Soi Mountain to pray together. The mountains in the distance are North Korea.

We enjoy some traditional Korean musical performances. Does North Korea do the same?

Lastly, we gaze over rice paddies, to the DMZ, and beyond into North Korea. There can be tensions and even war, but can there be peace instead?

Pray.

This summer, the first floor of an old pension building in Yeongwol Community was transformed into a beautiful four-bedroom apartment with a kitchenette and living room. Pre-renovation, we made the best of the space for storage, furniture in one room, guests in the next, and in the largest room, a pingpong table. (That, along with prehistoric paddles, was courtesy of the previous property owners.) The furniture was fine but the guests complained of an overpowering smell of mold. When we began demolition, we could see why. Behind a coat of pink paint, were layers of moldy wallpaper and equally tired sheetrock. Flimsy wooden framing (also rotting here and there) came down too. Fortunately, the artificial wood floor was useable so we removed the interlocking pieces and set them aside.

Here, I have to admit that my involvement was significantly less than others on the crew as I was occupied cooking lunch every day and providing drinks and snacks to keep the full-time builders going. I certainly did none of the brain work necessary to renovate a house from start to finish. This little essay skips over hours of work and head ache. It entirely disregards the Tower of Babel moments when the builders found their efforts frustrated by a language barrier that even google translate can’t help out with. It’s shockingly cursory, but you might be bored by more.

I will share my perspective. Besides general work site tidying and trash removal, I enjoyed learning how to frame a wall with 2x4s, how to measure in metric (that’s hard for Americans) and tell the guy at the saw what length to cut, how to use a laser level, and more. My favorite part was drilling holes and running conduit and wires. My worst part was stuffing the walls with fiberglass insulation —no one likes combining long sleeves, gloves, earplugs, safety glasses, mask, and hot, muggy weather. Fast forward through sheetrocking, plastering, sanding, painting, re-flooring, putting in trim —painstakingly varnished on site (I escaped that job)—door frames, doors, hanging the ceiling (putting in ceiling tiles is fun) and installing lights. The old kitchen cupboards were re-installed and some bits of trim artistically utilized to hide their age. I moved onto bleaching and scrubbing moldy windows as a house isn’t done until it’s clean.

Forty days after the beginning of the project, on a steamy sunny morning, Yeongwol community gathered, festively dressed for a ribbon-cutting ceremony. We sang a song about the man who built on sand and the one who built on rock, we thanked God for His protection and blessings, and we named the building “House of Peace”. The ribbon was cut amid cheers, and we entered. Old, middle-aged, and young, all appreciating hours’ worth of work. Instead of dust, whining saws, and paint fumes, the smell of coffee and freshly baked brownies, a kaleidoscope of bright colored clothing, and exclamations of “oooh, did you see this?” or “ah, look at that!”, filled the air.

I’ve lived in Korea for two years, first in Taebaek for six months and then in Yeongwol the rest of the time. For us who have finally found a property in Korea where we can live together as an embassy for God’s Kingdom together, the birth of a new apartment is more than just successful project-completion. It is a new home for one family now and many others in the future. It’s the first page of a new and unwritten book, bound with love.

This year Buddha’s birthday was on Saturday, May 27, making the following Monday a national holiday. Pentecost, another birthday of sorts, was on May 28. Seeing the decorations for Buddha, reminded me of the birthday of the Church, Christ’s body of believers.

I haven’t written much about faith on my blog, focusing instead on linguistic or cultural tidbits, with more thoughtful pieces now and then. My “foreigner jaw” often drops in surprise at this or that, and I write it down quickly before the novelty wears off – as it almost always does. Strange things –like eating rice up to three times a day—become normal.Being in Korea has taught me far more than I ever imagined. Through my blog, I share just a few drops with you, like the after-drip of a garden hose when the work is done. This piece too is just drops; but it’s the real stuff, more important than squid and kimchi.

This past Sunday, Yeongwol Community read the Pentecost story together from the Book of Acts. We weren’t as diverse as the first gathering in Jerusalem, but we were still a mix: Korean, British, Australian, American; Yeongwol residents and visitors; old and young; with family or without. I sat there imagining that first gathering – the wind, the flames, the language they could all understand. We had to translate Korean into English and vice versa. I’m tempted to think the gift of tongues would make life easier – but that seems almost peripheral; because, these days, I keep pondering the depth and beauty of the Holy Spirit at work in this place.

In my Korean life – that’s how I think of it – I’ve discovered I can live without many things. I have let go of a lot. But I cannot live without that invisible, inexplicable reality of God. With teaching and guidance from that Presence, I can give and receive love, and I can forgive and be forgiven –albeit through a mishmash of broken English and broken Korean, despite differences in character, age, and culture. And through all accompanying frustrations, the Spirit comforts. He is not a hard master.

Perhaps if I lived in a familiar culture, if I didn’t live in community, if I spoke the same language as my co-workers and companions, if I felt secure in my work or my life or my “lot”. . . perhaps I wouldn’t realize how much I need that Spirit. There are normally so many buoys to keep us afloat, safe from floundering in the unknown.

I thank God – and this a learned gratitude – that I’m in a place where familiar buoys bob out of reach.

When I see Buddha’s birthday balloons nodding in the wind, I smile to think of the birthday I’m celebrating and the great wind and whispering breezes of God’s Holy Spirit.

Share Why Korea

I was trying to take a short video to show my parents the east coast of Korea. I got as far as “Hello, Dad and Mom, I’m standing on a beach, quite close to North . . .

The thundering sound of gunfire interrupted me.

. . . Korea,” I finished as the echoes blended with the sound of waves, “—North Korea.” And then I hastily added, “don’t worry, it’s South Korea and it’s just practice.”

Little comfort, I suppose.

I’ve gotten used to the deafening roar of fighter jets overhead and the headlines about whatever North Korea fires into the East Sea and how the USA and South Korea respond. But the sound of heavy guns was more unsettling. I never sent the video.

Wending my way along the beach picking up shells, I re-pondered thoughts that had gone through my mind earlier in the day while gazing at the DMZ and our northern neighbor, through coin-operated binoculars. Had they been looking back at us through the same?

How bizarre it all seems—human beings hell-bent on creating and maintaining borders, walls, and fences to separate themselves from other human beings. We have weapons designed to kill our own kind. Then we build museums commemorating all the times we killed each other, all the while repeating the same history with a 21st-century twist. What a species we are.

I was accompanying Yeongwol community’s middle school DMZ field trip, which took us about three hours northeast into Goseong state, part of Gangwon-do province (see map.) The highway ran along the coast with high mountains receding into the distance on the left and the sea just visible to the right—a strip of blue on the horizon beyond small hills, rice paddies, farms, and varied infrastructure. As we approached the northeastern tip of South Korea, we got to military territory —the orange portion of map below—where we stopped to register our vehicle and passengers. Then we drove to Goseong Unification Observation Tower. The observatory building, built in 2018, is located at the end of the road within the “Civilian Controlled Line Area” (green). In more peaceful times, a road reaching closer to the DMZ was constructed and used. But that’s military-only right now.

We gazed from the tower at the craggy mountains of North Korea, the thickly wooded mountains of the DMZ between “us” and “them,” and picturesque little islands poking out from the sea. The beauty of it pained me: It’s like Snow White lying in a glass coffin, I thought. Alluring but tragically untouchable; goodness corrupted by selfishness.

Looking closer I could see lookouts on the mountains, and barbed-wire-topped fences snaking through the trees. The beaches, for at least 30 kilometers, were equally armed. The sight of waves washing onto sand made me long to run along the water’s edge, but instead those same strong fences ran menacingly along, declaring the existence of an enemy.

Later, we went to the 6.25 (Korean) War Exhibit building and the  DMZ Museum. The Korean War might be the “Forgotten War” in the USA, but on this side of the world there is a peninsula where one people divided into two, where brothers shed blood of brothers, where two or even four million civilians died along with more than 1,250,000 troops from several countries¹. And yet what was accomplished?

I always knew that the 38th parallel cut a country in half, separating a people and even families. It’s a history I am slowly learning more about while adding real faces and places to my limited book knowledge.

Walking through the DMZ museum, a map caught my eye: I saw the province name “Gangwon-do”—my home. If someone asks where I live, my general answer is “Gangwon-do” —like saying “New York.” But I didn’t realize the Gangwon-do I know is just the bottom half. The top half is in North Korea. That had never occurred to me. I looked at the map incredulously.

Sometimes it’s the tiniest little detail that leaves the greatest impression.

The DMZ really does cut right through a country, through provinces, through the heart of a people. It would take a miracle beyond my imagination for this broken land to be healed and reunified. In the meantime, I pray for peace, and I pray that humans will remember that the other side is human too.

1. https://goforbroke.org/history/conflict-history/korean-war/

You, like I, are probably reflecting on your Easter celebration of last week. I wanted to share a bit of the beauty around me this spring along with a few pictures from Yeongwol community’s Holy Week experiences. The tomb and crosses built by children and young people here, helped us ponder Jesus’ crucifixion on Good Friday, the day of waiting on Saturday, and then the joy of Easter Sunday, the Resurrection. I’ve included a song I learned somewhere in childhood, the lines of which came back to mind last week as I stopped to look at bright green rye pushing out of brown, dry earth. The words stuck with me through Easter.

Enjoy,

-Trudi

Good Friday

Holy Saturday

Easter Sunday

Yeongwol community celebrated Jesus’ Resurrection by visiting the empty tomb just as the disciples did.

On Easter morning, after a festive communal breakfast in a beautifully prepared and decorated dining room, we heard the story from the gospels of how Jesus appeared to Mary Magdelene and then to the other disciples.

My best part was singing joyful Easter songs in Korean and English—both languages simultaneously with noisy chicks accompanying us from the corner of the room.

In the days following Easter, as I watch spring putting on her best show, the lines from Easter hymns still run through my heart.

The Holy Land is the place where Jesus actually was born, lived, and died. But just as he comes to every human heart and wants to gather all men to himself, his story belongs in every culture.

Celebrating Easter in Yeongwol community and hearing and singing about Jesus in Korean and English affirms to me His presence in every culture and language.

Forgive me, I have to interrupt myself here: make sure you’ve subscribed to Seasons of Community Living, so you can receive our next blog and hear about my Easter in Yeongwol, Korea, along with beautiful contributions from Marianne in New York and Norann in Australia.

Seasons of Community Living

Dispatches from the Bruderhof

During the height of the Korean war, Korean artist Kim Ki-chang 김기창 (a.k.a Woonbo, 운보) painted a series of pictures entitled the “Life of Jesus”. I shared some of his paintings in a blog one Christmas, and now would like to share a few of my favorites from Christ’s ministry years, last days, death, and resurrection. I’m not sure why Jesus is depicted as a scholar and wearing a hat indicating nobility, as I would have chosen a lower class depiction, but I am sure the artist had his reasons. To read more about Kim Ki-chang’s life and work, here’s one site of many.

While living in Korea, I’ve been to palaces and historical buildings in the city, Bethlehem-like villages in the countryside, and most often—rocky mountains and sheltered groves where I think Jesus would have gone to pray. My heart resonates with the Korean portrayal. I can feel how deeply the artist poured his heart and personal anguish into his work. No captions needed.

Here’s a sequel to “Daring to Cook”. After this you won’t have to hear about cooking for a while; I spend enough hours in a kitchen each week, so blogging about another topic would allow me to step out the kitchen door—thank you.

Imagine that you have never tasted apple pie, or perhaps you’ve only had it once. If you make and bake your first apple pie, how will you know what it should be like? Yes, everyone has different tastes but those of us who have eaten apple pie ever since ever have a pretty good idea of what makes a pie superb, mediocre, or disappointing. Most of us will notice the difference between a crisp, flaky crust and a dry, tough one. We know if the apples are undercooked and watery, or overcooked and mushed, or deliciously perfect; whether the filling is flavorless, overspiced with nutmeg, or just right.

Like apple pie-lovers who know what constitutes a good pie, Koreans have this deep, innate sense of how their food should taste. I have to admit that neither squid nor any other slimy creature actually scares me—the real challenge is cooking Korean dishes for Koreans.

Yeongwol community has a communal meal six days a week and one couple does a wonderful job of shopping for groceries on behalf of all. I know my limitations, so I asked the shoppers to plan our menus. There were several days last month when I had to decipher the menu, ask some questions, watch a youtube video (in Korean), figure out my own recipe, and give it a whirl. But when the moment came to taste the finished product, I really had no idea if it was right. It tasted good. . .but. . . .

Certain dishes should be saltier, some should be sweet, some should be sour, some should be fire-breathing hot, and others just a little spicy. Believe me, it’s fine art —and I didn’t even mention texture. The worst I did was overseason bulgogi and overcook some bean sprouts. No one complained, and everybody ate thankfully. But of course, my goal being perfection I had to extricate the feedback from them. (Thank goodness electric rice cookers eliminate worries about burning the rice).

Fortunately, I didn’t have to wing it alone for too long (although there was an element of fun to that) and now I am privileged to work side by side with one of the Korean women here at Yeongwol. She’s a mother of five and has probably spent more hours in the kitchen than I’ve spent on planet Earth.

Oh my goodness, I am learning so much! There are so many fine details: what kind of soy sauce for what, how to chop this for this dish and that for that dish—but I’ll stop here. There are just layers of learning to uncover, and it’s all stored in the hearts, minds, and hands of Korean mothers. Luckily, I have also learned that every cook has their own style so if my cooking tastes a little different, well “that’s how my mother made it”.

Each country and culture has rich cuisine. I am privileged to taste the kaleidoscopic beauty of the Korean kitchen on Korean soil. One day, when I am living elsewhere, I dream of surprising a Korean, homesick for the solace of native food, with at least a tiny taste of home—just like the apple pie a Korean friend dared to make and share with me. It was just right. Daring to cook foreign is worth it and the love in the attempt covers over little mistakes.