Chosen

Courage to stand

Courage to stand

“Strike the shepherd, and the sheep will be scattered.” Zechariah 13:7

Father stood in the doorway, bound like Mother but even more tightly. The cords around his wrists cut into his skin. Dried blood caked around his lip where it was split open. When he saw me, Father smiled faintly. His demeanor assured me; I didn’t even cry out when the junior guard shoved Father so hard that he fell at Pock-Mark’s feet by the metal stove in the middle of the room.

“Name,” rasped the scar-faced interrogator.

“Song Hyun-Ki,” replied Father as he stood up to face his accuser. Remember the steadiness of Father’s voice. I forced myself to focus on Father’s powerful presence. Remember how calm he is. Remember the peace you feel right now. It was a stark contrast to the cold of Pock-Marks’s touch or the shock of my mother’s apostasy just moments earlier.

“Religion?”

Father didn’t hesitate. “I worship Jesus Christ, the risen Son of God, the Savior of all men.”

On hearing Father’s words, I was sure the officer would beat him, but for the slightest moment, a look of terror flashed through Pock-Marks’ dark eyes. I was certain that Father noticed it as well, and he glanced in my direction as if to say, Did you see it too, Daughter?

Unfortunately, that moment of victory was fleeting. The officer looked Father up and down and then smiled. “It’s a dangerous proposition,” Pock-Marks goaded, “being so bold when there are children present.”

I stood still, willing myself to breathe. The corner of Father’s lip quivered, but his voice betrayed no terror as he spoke. “Chung-Cha belongs to Christ,” Father declared. “Even if you destroy me, God will still watch over my daughter.”

The agent chuckled, taking a single stride toward me. “And what if I destroy her?” In one swift motion, Pock-Marks grabbed my hair and yanked me down until I was kneeling on the ground in front of the stove.

“Father!” I yelped. The officer could break my neck with one strong snap. I heard Father suck in his breath as if someone hit him straight in the gut.

“Answer me now, you filthy Christian pig.” Pock-Marks was wheezing even as he sneered at Father. “Will you let your daughter suffer for the sake of this precious religion?”

Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Father set his jaw. “My daughter and I do not cower in fear of those who can harm the body but cannot kill the soul.”

Pock-Marks pulled my head back even more and then slammed it hard against the metal stove. A loud crack sounded in my ears, and hot blood gushed from my forehead. My vision blurred. “Father!” I tried to cry out, but words wouldn’t form. The sense of tranquility vanished, and only one thought remained:

This man was going to kill me.

The officer laughed. “This is how Christian pigs protect their offspring!” Pock-Marks pulled my head back again. I was going to die while my father stood by watching helplessly.

“Don’t!” I croaked, finally finding my voice.

Pock-Marks laughed again. For a moment, my fear was replaced by anger toward Father and toward the God he served so faithfully, both of whom seemed so powerless at that moment to intervene on my behalf.

This time the officer slammed my entire face flat onto the stovetop. Blood spilled from my nose and choked me as it pooled in the back of my throat.

“What do you have to say for yourself now, fool?” Pock-Marks asked. “Only a stupid pig would serve an invisible god who can’t save a little girl.” The officer held my face back so Father could watch me trying to cough up blood. Father’s voice betrayed his tears as he proclaimed, “The suffering that my family and I endure in this life is nothing compared to the hope that we have for the glorious kingdom of heaven. Our light and momentary trials are achieving for us an even greater reward.”

“If you insist on serving your Western puppet god, I’ll kill your daughter without the slightest regret,” Pock-Marks snarled, his once-raspy voice now inexplicably clear as he slammed my face a third time onto the stovetop.

“My daughter belongs to Christ,” Father announced, choking on his sob. Beloved daughter, I must confess to you that in that moment I hated Father for his stubborn faith. I couldn’t keep my eyes open. Another blow and I would be dead.

Though crying, Father addressed me with surprising confidence. “Righteous daughter,” he declared, loudly enough so that everyone could hear, “there is no shame in suffering for the gospel, only reward.” His words sounded distant and fuzzy as my skull was bashed once more against the metallic edge of the stove.

“Jesus Christ also died at the hands of wicked men.” Father was sobbing as he preached. Whether he was speaking to me, or my attacker, or the half a dozen men who stood by watching the violence unfold I didn’t know. I didn’t care, either. Father’s words were meaningless. Pock-Marks meant to kill me. What good were Father’s sermons? “But even death was powerless against the Son of God,” Father continued. My assailant’s hand trembled, and I braced myself for the end. “Three days after Jesus was brutally tortured and killed, he returned to life.” Father’s words were garbled in my ears.

With that, Pock-Marks let out a deafening roar. He flung me aside, and I collapsed onto the floor in a puddle of blood. Before I fell unconscious, I saw Pock-Marks rush toward Father, his pistol extended.

I heard a gunshot, followed by a loud thud. Darkness engulfed me, and I passed out.