Free The Beloved Daughter by Alana Terry
Authors: Alana Terry
“Without a doubt, the Almighty reveals his thoughts to me, but that does not make me any less human than you yourself are.”
I shook my head. “You’re so much stronger than I could ever hope to be. You have a boldness I’ve never seen before.” Except in my father , I might have added, were it not for his recantation and suicide in the detention center.
“Dear child,” she chuckled, “do you truly think that your old cellmate is really a bold witness for Christ?”
Now I was even more puzzled. “But aren’t you?” The Old Woman stopped laughing and shook her head.
“No,” she confessed. “At least I was not always.” The Old Woman smoothed out her gray hair. “Have I told you about my youngest son, Chung-Ho?”
“You told me of that he was converted in China, and that he was arrested with you and your husband.”
“There is more to that story.” The Old Woman shifted her weight. “When my son Chung-Ho was brought to Camp 22, the Lord placed upon him a spirit of great boldness and courage. By the time Chung-Ho was taken to glory, he had already shared the gospel with dozens, maybe hundreds, of prisoners. Many perishing souls were saved because of Chung-Ho’s fearless witness.”
“What happened to him?” I asked, although I was already certain of the answer.
“He was killed by the National Security Agency.” The Old Woman cleared her throat. Her head drooped toward the cement floor where we sat side by side, our shoulders and knees touching. I had never before noticed how frail her bones were. “It was a public execution. Because I was his mother, and because I was a Christian, I was forced to stand in the front row, so close that my prison garment was stained with my son’s blood.”
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
I shook my head. “You’re so much stronger than I could ever hope to be. You have a boldness I’ve never seen before.” Except in my father , I might have added, were it not for his recantation and suicide in the detention center.
“Dear child,” she chuckled, “do you truly think that your old cellmate is really a bold witness for Christ?”
Now I was even more puzzled. “But aren’t you?” The Old Woman stopped laughing and shook her head.
“No,” she confessed. “At least I was not always.” The Old Woman smoothed out her gray hair. “Have I told you about my youngest son, Chung-Ho?”
“You told me of that he was converted in China, and that he was arrested with you and your husband.”
“There is more to that story.” The Old Woman shifted her weight. “When my son Chung-Ho was brought to Camp 22, the Lord placed upon him a spirit of great boldness and courage. By the time Chung-Ho was taken to glory, he had already shared the gospel with dozens, maybe hundreds, of prisoners. Many perishing souls were saved because of Chung-Ho’s fearless witness.”
“What happened to him?” I asked, although I was already certain of the answer.
“He was killed by the National Security Agency.” The Old Woman cleared her throat. Her head drooped toward the cement floor where we sat side by side, our shoulders and knees touching. I had never before noticed how frail her bones were. “It was a public execution. Because I was his mother, and because I was a Christian, I was forced to stand in the front row, so close that my prison garment was stained with my son’s blood.”
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