The Beloved Daughter (15 page)

Only seconds after my own guilt silenced my profane charges against the Almighty, I was surrounded by warmth. Even the air I breathed felt sacred. I couldn’t see anybody, but I was certain that Jesus himself was in the thorn bush with me, holding my head on his lap, pouring his grace into my war-torn soul, healing my spirit’s deep wounds with the gentle touch of his nail-scarred hands.

The questions that had plagued my soul for years remained unanswered, yet where there was previously turmoil and unrest, there was now peace and the unshakable certainty that God is both loving and powerful. Even though men are brutal, sinful from birth and unable to do any good, even though innocent children, worrisome mothers, and courageous fathers each suffer every day in God’s created world, I knew in my heart that God is still good. And somehow, in the core of my spirit, I was certain that I was loved and cherished more than I dared imagine.

The wind howled, and the night sounds mourned the darkness that had covered the entire earth since sin first entered the world. I was a stranger in a foreign land, hungry and disheveled, but in my soul there was light and rejoicing.

I was a child of God. I was his righteous daughter. And I was loved more than I had ever dreamed possible.

Haven

“They were glad when it grew calm, and he guided them to their desired haven.” Psalm 107:30

I didn’t intend to fall asleep. I was startled to see the sun above me when I woke up the next day. I was still lying underneath the thorn bush and could hardly move. The asthmatic sting in my lungs reminded me that I had been running yesterday.
How far? I knew that something devastating happened, but my groggy mind refused to wake up as fast as I pleaded it to.

I looked around as far as I could from my hiding place and saw nothing familiar. All too slowly, I recalled fragments of the previous evening: machine guns in the night, blood on my cheek, a prayer whispered in hiding.

And then I remembered everything.

My breathing sped up. My throat constricted. Begging myself to remain calm, I thought through my options. I could turn myself in to the North Koreans, but that would only mean torture and a future back in prison. I couldn’t return to Hasambong and live secretly there. I had been imprisoned in the camps since my childhood and didn’t know how to survive on my own. But what was I supposed to do in China to avoid getting caught? I didn’t know anything about Chinese geography; I didn’t even know what province I was in.

At first, it seemed that my only choice was to return to my own country and surrender myself to the Korean guards. Perhaps after their interrogations, they would let me live out the rest of my days in a labor camp like the one I left only three weeks earlier. If I claimed that Shin kidnapped me, I might get a lighter sentence than other border crossers.

Then I remembered the godlessness and hopelessness of my years at Camp 22. Was my faith strong enough to sustain me through that much suffering again? Spending the rest of my life in the same bleak spiritual stupor was a fate worse than death itself.

I must confess to you, beloved daughter, that if I had a weapon with me that day I would have been tempted to end my life right there in the thorny copse. I was terrified of the road ahead of me, certain that it could only lead to more heartache, more suffering, and more trials to test my fragile faith. If God let me down even one more time, I would never have the courage or spiritual stamina to trust him again. I was too scarred by my past and too terrified of my future to realize that God’s hand could guide me there on Chinese soil.

Because I was in such an emotional state, perhaps you will not be surprised when I tell you that it was nearly evening when I finally crawled out from under the thorns. My heart was weighed down with so much fear and uncertainty that I spent another hour or two crouched between two bushes, cringing in fear at the slightest sound. Other than a pair of sparrows, the area was deserted. I wondered just how far I ran last night. The watchtowers and the riverbank were now out of sight.

Somewhere in the recesses of my memory, the Old Woman’s words played over again in my ears:
“The Lord will lift you up on angels’ wings. God Almighty will himself provide you safe escort beyond prison walls, over rivers, even across borders of nations.”
Yet with the Old Woman’s prophecy of hope came so many doubts about God’s goodness and power like those that tormented me ever since Father’s death. How can a powerful God watch idly while his children suffer? If God was able to keep me safe, why did he allow Shin to die? If it was truly the Almighty who orchestrated my passage into China, why was I here, cold and hungry and deserted?

In the midst of my thorny sanctuary, I envisioned how many ways I could end my life if I only had the right tool. It was the cruelty of fate that I had no choice but to live. And then, while images of quick and easy suicide played through my mind, the taunting voice of my father’s torturer echoed in my memory:

“Song Hyun-Ki hanged himself less than an hour ago, a coward in death just like he was in life.”

I stood up. I wouldn’t follow in my father’s path. I wouldn’t shirk away from my destiny, be it torture or sanctuary. I would face my future, whatever it held.

I prayed for protection and stepped out of my thorny retreat. I looked ahead and sucked in my breath. There, less than a hundred meters away, stood a house with a cross hanging in the window, lit by a small candle and scarcely revealed behind a thin curtain.

I stumbled uphill toward the hope of shelter. I realized that this building could be a trap of the Chinese border patrolmen designed to hunt down desperate refugees. But I had no other choice. I stepped up to the house and knocked on the door.

A young man opened it. He was Korean, as was the teenage girl and the older man who stood behind him. As soon as they let me in, all three of them set to work. The younger man examined the blood stain on my coat as he helped me out of it but said nothing. The older man handed me a blanket to wrap around my shivering body. The girl started a fire and gave me a rag to clean my face. A few minutes later she passed me a bowl of rice and broth, which filled the hollow emptiness in my stomach and warmed my aching limbs. After I ate, she guided me to a bed in a room set apart from the main living area. “Please try to rest. Tomorrow, when you have the strength, you can tell us about yourself.”

When I saw the bed, covered with a faded quilt and soft feather pillow, all laid out and prepared as if these people had anticipated my arrival for days, I didn’t know how to respond. The girl took me by the hand and led me into my new room.

“I can help you brush your hair,” she offered. I had no voice, so I just nodded. I hadn’t brushed my hair in nine years.

“My name is Kim So-Young.” After So-Young helped me out of my prison clothes and into a faded nightgown, she sat on the bed behind me and worked the knots out of my hair.

“I am Song Chung-Cha,” I croaked through my parched throat. I was embarrassed to have this girl touch my hair, which was occasionally whacked off to keep its length manageable but otherwise hadn’t been kept up for almost a decade. I cringed at So-Young’s gentle touch, but the idea of being left alone in this large upholstered room was even more frightening than the thought of So-Young discovering or even contracting my lice.

“Where do you come from?” So-Young asked. For a moment I froze, thinking that I would have to invent a convincing lie. “I mean, where did you live before you were sent to camp?” she added, reminding me that my hosts would have noticed my prison uniform when I first took off Shin’s bloody coat.

“I lived in the North Hamyong province.” For the first time I realized how strange it was that even my childhood friend Mee-Kyong from the garment factory never knew the name of my hometown. When we were first incarcerated, we were taught that we no longer had a history or a heritage. We were prisoners. Camp 22 was the closest thing to home we would ever know. “That was a long time ago.”

“What town in North Hamyong did you use to live in?” So-Young questioned.

“Hasambong.”

So-Young held the brush above my head. “Song Chung-Cha?” she repeated. “From Hasambong?”

Her reaction startled me. So-Young jumped up. “Are you related to Song Hyun-Ki?” So-Young pressed, unable to maintain her whisper.

I froze when I heard my father’s name spoken in this Chinese home. I nodded in confusion. So-Young ran out of the room. “Our new guest is from Hasambong,” I heard her announce in a musical voice. “She is related to Song Hyun-Ki!”

Mr. Kim, So-Young’s father, came and stood at my doorway, his lips drooping down to the floor. To judge by his reaction alone, I would have thought being related to Song Hyun-Ki was a grave crime, yet So-Young was smiling brightly at me. The younger man stood outside my room, staring at the floor. I endured so much as a prisoner that I didn’t even think to be embarrassed to be seen by these men in nightclothes.

“You came from Hasambong?” Mr. Kim was bald and had a round face, and although he was not obese, he was the most ample man I had ever seen in person. The only portlier individual I knew of was the Dear Leader himself.

“Yes, I grew up in Hasambong.” I glanced from one figure to another. The younger man stood blushing, while So-Young clasped her hands and looked from me to her father. Mr. Kim stood with his arms crossed and eyebrows knit together.

“You know Song Hyun-Ki?” asked Mr. Kim. His authoritative voice echoed his disapproval against the four walls of the house.

“He was my father.” So-Young gasped aloud. Mr. Kim jerked his head to the side, indicating that we should follow him to the living room. We all sat around the fire.

“We haven’t heard any reports regarding Song Hyun-Ki in many years, ever since his arrest. How long ago was that?”

“Nine years.” I kept my eyes to the floor. I didn’t know how these individuals knew of my father, but I wouldn’t be the one to tell them of his fate.

“That long ago?” exclaimed the younger man. “You must have been nothing more than a child then!” He stared at me until Mr. Kim cleared his throat.

“I was twelve.”

“And your father?” pressed Mr. Kim. “What has happened to our donkey?”

I didn’t understand the phrase, but I knew that – regardless of who they thought he was – I couldn’t tell these people the truth about Father’s death. “He died in detainment about two weeks after his arrest.” Both men nodded their heads. So-Young’s smile vanished and she blinked her wide eyes.

I had so many questions. I wanted to ask how these people from across the border knew of my family, but Mr. Kim stood up without warning. “You have undoubtedly had a long journey. You will sleep now.” Mr. Kim cast an authoritative glance at his daughter. I caught the younger man’s eye, but he shook his head.

My limbs were exhausted, but my heart was weighed down with questions. I went into my room and stretched out on my soft bed.
How I ached for the chance to lose myself in a warm and comforting sleep, to momentarily forget that everyone I had ever cared for – or who had ever cared for me – was dead. But my mind was racing. Who were these strangers, and how did they know about my father? How had they heard of his arrest so many years ago when we lived across such a tightly controlled border?

In the other room, I heard Mr. Kim and the other man talking late into the night. I couldn’t make out what they said, but there was no mistaking the intensity in their voices.

The Gift

“So is the word that goes out from my mouth: It will not return to me empty, but will accomplish what I desire and achieve the purpose for which I sent it.” Isaiah 55:11

“Where is everybody?” I asked So-Young when I got out of bed the middle of the next day. Still in my nightgown, I entered the main living room and found my teenage hostess alone washing dishes at the basin sink.