Suffering and giving thanks

LOS ANGELES—As a journalist I shake the hands of many, many strangers. But there are some people whom after the interview, and even after the story is written and published, I continue to meet because they’ve so touched some part of me that I’m reluctant to lose them. So a handshake turns into hugs, an interview turns into coffee meet-ups, and a stranger becomes a friend.

Kim Jung-hee is one of them. I first met this beaming, petite-sized North Korean refugee in 2012, through another North Korean defector, at the restaurant she owned with her husband Charles Kim. Sniffing a story in this couple, I visited their restaurant again and interviewed Kim while she was busy pleating pork dumplings for that night’s customers. The result of that interview was a feature story about two North Korean refugees who face continuous struggles even after they’ve escaped the totalitarian regime.

After the interview, Kim ordered me to come back and taste her dumplings.

“They’re delicious—everybody says so,” she promised, lifting up both hands. “God blessed me with these hands to feed others, so you must share that blessing.”

In Korean culture, it’s a disgrace to disobey your elders, so I came back. She was right: Her dumplings—and her pork rib soup, spicy fish stew, blood sausages, noodles, and pan-fried seafood pancake—were scrumptious. I returned the next week with a gang of hungry, curious friends. I came back again and again, each time bringing a different group of friends of all ethnicities and religions. Every time, Kim filled their bellies with great delight, be they African-American, Japanese-Jewish, Baha'i, or Muslim. All my friends loved the food, and they loved her.

But most of my friends didn’t realize how much the Kims struggled financially. The person who sold them the restaurant building had not been upfront about certain matters, so they were about $50,000 in debt. They were also constantly behind on car payments. Kim rarely mentioned this unless I insisted on asking. In May 2014, the Kims decided to close up and sell the restaurant. Since then, Charles Kim had been working back-breaking hours at a chicken teriyaki shop, and Kim made blood sausages to sell at a Korean supermarket food court.

About two months ago, doctors discovered cancer in Charles’ liver. The cancer cells spread so rapidly doctors opened their palms and gave up—sending Charles home to die.

I didn’t find out until mid-December. When I did, I felt my heart tear.

“God, these people have been suffering since the moment they were born,” I prayed. “They suffered in North Korea, then suffered escaping North Korea, and then suffered some more in South Korea and America, working hard to adapt and feed themselves … and now they die suffering. Why? This is so unjust.”

Three days after Christmas, I visited the Kims’ rented home with two friends who also knew them: the daughter of a pastor who ministers to North Korean refugees, and a teenage girl whose father is North Korean. We brought fruits, home-baked banana bread, and a love offering—plus some nervousness because we didn’t know what to expect. We worried about the state of their faith, and fretted about how Kim was getting around, since her husband used to do all the driving for her.

Turns out, I had worried due to little faith. I had forgotten that the Kims also have a God who intimately and perfectly takes care of His children. The moment she opened the door, her hair tousled from a much-needed nap, Kim greeted us warmly.

“Oh, my puppies are here!” she exclaimed.

We sat down awkwardly, but she was already bursting with eagerness to tell us all the ways in which God has been with her: She hasn’t driven in seven years, but the moment she sat behind the steering wheel, God gave her incredible driving skills. She cruised L.A.’s notorious freeways for the first time in her life and didn’t cower in fear. Her first time parking, she found a perfect space, and she was so thrilled that she shot both arms into the air and screamed, “Hurrah! Praise God!” She’d always worried about her husband’s wavering faith, but once bedridden, he listened to sermons all day on the radio. She felt lonely on Christmas morning, but she chased the self-pity away by reading out the Scriptures to her husband.

On and on she went, encouraging and strengthening the three of us who had come to comfort her. Even though she’d lost her family (including a son) in North Korea, lost her restaurant, and would soon lose her husband, Kim told us she’s not giving up on her dream: To restart a food business, since cooking is her gift, and use whatever she has to participate and support international missions, particularly in North Korea.

But in the meantime, she’s daily discovering new reasons to give thanks. Charles had to be hospitalized the morning we visited because he had been in immense pain all night. Three ambulances had shown up at their doorstep immediately after Mrs. Kim called 911.

“Isn’t America amazing?” Kim cried, recounting how a team of “giant American guys” had towered over her as they effortlessly carried her husband away. “How thankful I am to be in this generous country!” She also gave thanks that we had shown up on that particular day because she doesn’t understand GPS and needed someone to show her the way to the new hospital. Then she yelped another happy thanksgiving when she found out it was just an easy 8-minute drive away.

At the hospital, I was shocked to see how much Charles had wasted away. His shrunken head disappeared into the white pillow, unrecognizable from the full-fleshed, stoic but gentle face that used to greet me amicably with a nod. Now every angle of his skull jutted out, and beneath his gown I noticed the deep shadows of protruding bones and sagging, yellowed skin. His eyes glimmered with some recognition when he saw me, but he was unable to speak intelligibly.

“I know,” Kim muttered, when she saw my eyes turn watery. “He’s lost a lot of weight, right? But I believe God can work miracles and expel the cancer away. And if He doesn’t, then my husband will be in a better place than us.” She then leaned towards her husband and said, “Chin up! Look, God provided a better hospital for us! Don’t worry, God always takes care of us.”

With some degree of shame, I realized that I had underestimated this North Korean couple’s simple yet deep faith. Even though I’m a pastor’s kid who has listened to thousands of sermons and read stacks of theological books, I’m not certain whether I would have persevered so brightly and steadfastly if everything the Kims endured ever happened to me.

On the drive to the hospital, Kim shared her secret. She wrapped her cold, chapped hand around mine.

“Sohyun,” she said with a serious face, calling me by my Korean name, “I learned that truly, I cannot live without prayer. I cannot survive a second of my life without God.”

On New Years’ Eve, just a few hours before midnight, Charles Kim died—he went a better place than ours. Kim sent me a text with the update and a request: “Please pray for me. Thank you.”