Bowls Always Filled Too High

When my grandmother was alive, she lived next to a Korean church.

Church was her life. She went every morning for prayer meetings and attended Wednesday and Friday services.

Sunday was when the rest of us joined.

We would drive thirty or forty minutes to the same church. The adults sat together in one row, while the children were sent off to youth service.

Afterward, everyone stayed — rice cakes, coffee, conversation.

Then we would gather at my grandmother’s small apartment and eat lunch together.

Her favorite was biji jjigae — tofu stew with kimchi.

The sharp smell of fermented kimchi and soy filled her tiny one-bedroom apartment.

She never let the grandchildren into her kitchen.

Instead, she stood by the cabinet and ladled soup into our bowls, always overfilling them.

“Too much, Grandma. I can’t eat that much.”

But she insisted.

Her cooking was better than my mother’s.

Of course we should eat more.

Now I think about those bowls often.

My sister still tries to recreate the soup, but it never tastes quite the same.

We all miss her jjigae.

As a teenager, I used to sit impatiently, watching the clock.

Sunday was the only day I could rest — no practice, no homework. I wanted to go to the mall, or just go home and watch a movie.

But my grandmother always asked us to stay longer.

“Have dessert.”

“Eat some fruit.”

“Watch this show with me.”

Lunch stretched into late afternoon.

At the time, I thought my entire Sunday was being swallowed by bowls of biji jjigae.

In my twenties, she moved into a nursing home.

The routine continued. We still went to church, then visited her and shared a meal.

By then, I understood something I hadn’t before.

She no longer moved much. She lay quietly in front of the television while we ate around her.

I knew those moments were limited.

I understand now why church matters so much to my parents.

For them, it was never just about faith.

It was where life slowed down.

Where family gathered.

Where, no matter how busy things became, everyone sat down and shared a meal.

Something they want to pass down to my children.

And I did love it —

those long Sundays, sitting around the table with her.

But I hesitate.

Korean church came with its own weight.

Expectations.

Opinions.

Unsolicited advice.

It was never just a place you attended.

You belonged — as someone’s niece, someone’s daughter, someone’s responsibility.

And that closeness could feel heavy.

I understand why my parents want my children to have that.

But I don’t know if I have the energy to carry it.

I don’t know if I want to answer, again and again,

why Big Bear doesn’t speak Korean yet,

why we chose a certain school,

why Little Lion won’t eat the food someone lovingly prepared.

Sometimes I think about my grandmother in that small apartment,

standing quietly, filling our bowls higher than we asked for.

That was how she loved us.

Generously.

Without asking.

Now I have children of my own.

And I wonder —

not just what I will pass down,

but what I am allowed to leave behind.