The Beloved Daughter (9 page)

I turned to study the Old Woman’s ancient face, trying for a moment to understand her pain and sorrow. “But even those standing half a kilometer away would have heard his voice that day,” the Old Woman related, once again lifting her head up. “Even though he was bound and tied to the execution pole, my son managed to release his gag, then preached the gospel to every single prisoner and guard who was blessed enough to witness his execution.

“‘Fellow prisoners,’ he called out, ‘This is the day of my death. Today I experience true freedom for the first time.’ Before the guards pulled their triggers, my son urged everyone listening to call on the name of Jesus and receive eternal life.”

The Old Woman sighed and patted my hand. “Chung-Ho’s faith and courage shamed me. As an officer’s wife, I never shared the gospel with anybody besides my two sons, and even that took me years of prayer and fasting. The day Chung-Ho was shot, I begged God to give me my son’s boldness. But the Almighty did not answer my prayers overnight.”

“Then how did you end up here?”

“That is a different story altogether,” answered the Old Woman, coughing before she continued in her low, melodic voice. “Eventually word of my witnessing attempts, feeble as they were, reached the ears of the guards. I was put in detainment. It was then, in the midst of intense fear and persecution, that the words of our Master came to me in a vision. One night, the Savior himself appeared in my cell and told me clearly, ‘Do not be afraid of those who kill the body but cannot kill the soul.’”

“From Matthew,” I remarked, remembering how my father loved the first gospel and memorized it in its entirety. The Old Woman looked over at me and furrowed her brow.

“Matthew?” she repeated. “From the Bible?”

Now I was confused. “Isn’t that where that verse is from?”

The Old Woman smiled. “Little daughter, your father was blessed to have the Word of God not only in his heart, but in his hands, and you were blessed to have him as your teacher. I have not seen the Holy Book since I was younger than you, a child in my parents’ house before the Peninsula War. As an adult, I never owned a Bible out of fear of my husband.” I tried to picture my cellmate afraid of anything, but the image would not come to me.

“My vision of Jesus filled me with hope,” the Old Woman continued. “It was then that the Lord revealed to me that I would die a prisoner here in the detainment center, so I stopped fearing the torture of men and began to proclaim the gospel of Christ. The guards and prisoners probably all thought I was crazy. I sat alone in my cell, hollering loudly so that everyone within hearing range would have a chance to receive salvation. To my surprise, I did not die within a few days or weeks as I expected. The Lord sustained me through the beatings I endured, so I continued to preach. Eventually the National Security agents put me down here in solitary confinement where my voice would not carry so far.”

The Old Woman lay down on the ground. The lights were already off for the night. Refusing to let her sleep before answering my final question, I clasped her bony hand. “But why do the guards treat you the way they do? There isn’t a prisoner in the entire camp as well off as you!”

The Old Woman didn’t roll over. “Little daughter,” she sighed, “I am very tired, and I must be getting some rest now.”

“But can’t you just explain …” I pleaded, but the Old Woman’s mouth drooped open. She was already asleep.

Visitor

“And all who touched him were healed.” Matthew 14:36

“Honored Grandmother,” a male voice whispered. I quickly awoke, startled to see the shadowy form of a guard hovering over the Old Woman. Few of the guards came down our corridor at night, and none ever entered our cell before. His flashlight was covered almost entirely with a rag, and his whisper was strained as he shook the Old Woman. “Honored Grandmother.”

The Old Woman’s joints groaned as she sat up. After turning to face the guard, she stretched out her arms and smiled at him broadly. “Comrade, welcome to the home of Myong Kyung-Soon and my little daughter Song Chung-Cha. We are honored by your visit.”

The guard shifted uneasily at the Old Woman’s greeting. “Please, Honored Grandmother,” he whispered, looking down the hallway, “it is my daughter.” The guard paused and rubbed his pants leg. “She is very ill.”

“And you have come to ask me to pray for her healing,” the Old Woman finished.

“If you please, Honored Grandmother,” begged the guard. “I’ve heard about the night so many years ago, about what happened to you. I wouldn’t dare to ask you for help except that I have no one else. My wife is dead. My daughter is all I have left.”

The Old Woman stared at the man, who continued rubbing his arm up and down his leg as he endured her silent scrutiny.

After a moment staring at our guest, the Old Woman lifted her head toward the ceiling. She sat in silent meditation while the guard cast furtive glances down the hallway.

Finally, the Old Woman opened her eyes and looked directly at our visitor. “You may go now,” she announced. “But remember that it is Jesus Christ, and not Myong Kyung-Soon, who has healed your daughter.”

The guard stood up and bowed awkwardly. “I am indebted to you for your kindness, Honored Grandmother.” He rushed out of our cell and locked the door behind him.

“May the Almighty protect you both,” the Old Woman whispered, but by then the guard was running down the hallway. In a moment, he was out of sight.

I watched the Old Woman and tried to guess what it was that made the guards not only fear her but also solicit her prayers for the miraculous.

As the Old Woman lay herself back down on the cement floor, her body creaked in revolt. “Little daughter,” she called out softly in the darkness, “are you awake?”

“Yes, Honored Grandmother,” I answered, inching myself to her side, ready to ask her my questions.

“Dear child,” she rasped, squeezing my hand weakly in hers. The Old Woman coughed. “I am very tired. Would you do me a favor?”

“Anything,” I promised, as curious as I was earnest. I wondered what I could possibly do to repay the Old Woman for her friendship and encouragement.

The Old Woman took a deep and labored breath. Inside her chest was a dry rattle that made me cringe. “Such a dear child,” she croaked, almost to herself. It was not until that moment that I realized the Old Woman’s body was subject to sickness and weakness just as mine was. The thought was terrifying. “I am so very tired,” she repeated. “It would be an honor if my little daughter would pray over my weary soul and body.”

I confess to you, beloved daughter, that I was disappointed by the Old Woman’s request. I was ready to strip off my clothes in order to give my friend extra warmth, to forgo food for a week in order to provide her with additional rations, to deny myself sleep in order to offer her my lap as a pillow as she did so often for me.

Nevertheless, I couldn’t refuse the Old Woman’s request, however incompetent I felt. I held her feeble hand, shut my eyes, and mumbled some pitiful prayer about comfort and rest and protection. I was certain that I failed the Old Woman, but when I was done, she pressed my hand weakly and whispered, “Thank you, little daughter” before another coughing fit racked her entire body.

Hovering

“We ourselves … groan inwardly as we wait eagerly for our adoption as sons, the redemption of our bodies.” Romans 8:23

The next day I was surprised to find the Old Woman still asleep when the electricity was turned on. Every morning for the past nine months, I woke up to the sound of the Old Woman singing hymns or speaking her prayers in her low, croaking voice. When she saw me, she would stop and smile, the joy from her face illuminating our entire cell. “And how is my righteous daughter today?” she would ask. We would spend the rest of the day together in quiet rest or deep conversation.

But this morning, the Old Woman didn’t wake up as usual. Her breathing remained as rattled as it was the night before. Through her threadbare prison garments, the Old Woman’s ribcage pulled and tugged with each labored breath. I didn’t want to admit to myself what was clear before my eyes: my friend and mentor was sick. A familiar sense of fear and dread swept over me. I still couldn’t understand why I was here in this cell, but I knew that my nine-month respite from beatings and torture was solely the result of my relationship with the Old Woman. My body grew hot and ached with memories of torment and agony.

As I watched the Old Woman sleeping, looking fifteen years older and ten kilograms lighter than she did the previous day, an even deeper fear than that of torture crept into my spirit. In the Old Woman’s presence, I experienced peace and joy like I hadn’t known since before Father was arrested. If the Old Woman died, I was terrified that every ounce of conviction that was born once again in my heart after my father’s death would be buried with her forever.

God
, I prayed,
I need her so much. Don’t take her away.

The Old Woman moaned and cracked open one of her blue eyes. “Little daughter?” she whispered. I rushed to kneel by her side. I touched her forehead. The Old Woman felt cold and moist.

I squeezed the Old Woman’s hand; her presence seemed to be my only source of hope or strength. “What do you need?” The Old Woman looked at me and squinted without answering. I tried to slow my racing heart and then asked again, “Can I get something for you?”

“Water,” the Old Woman croaked. Her gray hair hung over her forehead in clumps.

I ran to the locked door of our cell. “Help!” I called out through the bars. “Please help us!” Although I never addressed a guard in my entire tenure in the detention center, I didn’t worry for my safety. I knew the guards scurried like ants to show the Old Woman their deference and wasn’t surprised when two prison officers came running down the hallway.

“What is it?” the senior guard demanded.

“She’s sick,” I replied. “She needs water.” The first guard nodded his head slightly, sending his younger comrade scurrying down the corridor.

“How long has she been like this?” the guard demanded, clasping the bar to our cell door. His forearm muscles bulged underneath his uniform.

“She said she was tired last night,” I related, “and she was like this when she woke up this morning.”

The younger guard returned and unlocked the cell door to hand me a small tin cup full of water. I carried it over and sat down on the floor next to the Old Woman. I propped her head up on my lap and held the cup as she sipped at it. Water dribbled down her chin onto my leg.

“Thank you.” The Old Woman sighed as I felt her moist forehead again.

I looked toward the guards, who continued to hover by the door. “I think she went back to sleep,” I reported.

“Then that is all we can do for now,” said the senior guard. “We will keep water here for you to give her. If she needs anything else, you must let us know.”

An hour later, I was trying to pray when I heard the Old Woman. “My son,” she spoke. The words were slurred. Her eyes were still closed. “My son,” the Old Woman repeated, her body rocking slowly from side to side. “How does a good tree bear such fruit?”

“Grandmother?” I whispered.

“The sheep wears wolf clothes,” the Old Woman mumbled. Drool dripped from the corner of her mouth. “My son … a black sheep … not a wolf …”

I forced myself to sit by her side, but it sent tremors through my backbone to see the Old Woman, who had been a constant pillar of strength and refuge, reduced to such a delirious state.

The Old Woman muttered incoherently for several hours. Eventually, a third guard appeared and handed me an extra blanket and mug of hot tea. I took the gifts in terrified silence. My only friend was hovering at the threshold of death.

There would be no miracle worker to save her.