First Chapter Reveal: The Beloved Daughter by Alana Terry
Genre: Inspirational Fiction
Author: Alana Terry
Website: www.alanaterry.com
Publisher: CreateSpace
PURCHASE THE BELOVED DAUGHTER HERE
SUMMARY:
In a small North Korean village, a young girl struggles to survive.
Catastrophic floods have ravaged her countryside. But it is her father’s faith,
not the famine of North Hamyong Province, that most
threatens Chung-Cha’s well-being.
Is Chung-Cha’s father right to be such a vocal believer? Or is he a fool
to bring danger on the head of his only daughter?
Chung-Cha is only a girl of twelve and is too young to answer such
questions. Yet she is not too young to face a life of imprisonment and forced
labor. Her crime? Being the daughter of a political dissident.
“The Beloved Daughter” follows Chung-Cha into one of the most notorious prison
camps of the contemporary free world. Will Chung-Cha survive the horrors of
Camp 22?
And if she does survive, will her faith remain intact?
“The Beloved Daughter” won second place in the 2012 Women of Faith
Writing Contest.
FIRST CHAPTER:
A BRUISED REED
“A bruised reed he will not break, and a smoldering wick he
will
not snuff out.” Isaiah 42:3
The wind howled, pummeling gusts of snow through the
cracks in our cabin walls. If the stinging cold and the
hunger
pains weren’t enough to keep me awake, my parents’ hushed
argument was. I hugged my blanket as I listened to their
voices,
forceful and angry as the winter gale.
“We can’t risk drawing attention to ourselves,” Mother
warned. “These inspectors report to Pyongyang.”
I slipped one eye open, just a crack. I knew my parents were
anxious about the arrival of the inspections unit from Pyongyang,
our nation’s capital. Kim Jong-Il, the Dear Leader himself,
sent
these inspectors to Hasambong to weed out any subversive
citizens. No one in Hasambong felt safe, even us children.
My parents stood in the middle of our cabin facing each
other. Father didn’t move at all. His face reminded me of
the
statue of our nation’s founder in front of our school. Kim
Il-
Sung’s bronze image never yielded in rain or snow or hail or
storm but gazed resolutely at his starving citizens with
cold and
stony eyes.
“I will not renounce the truths of Scripture just to make my
life here on this earth a little more comfortable,” Father spat.
He
was still whispering, but the forcefulness of his words
filled our
cabin like the roar of the angry Tumen
River in flood season. “‘If
you falter in times of trouble,’” Father quoted, “‘how small
is
your strength’!”
Mother swore. “Don’t talk to me about strength! Don’t you
think I wish things were different? But they’re not. You
think I’m a
coward. But I’m the one who watches out for our daughter’s
safety
while you bring open suspicion upon our household right in
front of
the inspectors. No, Husband.” Mother pointed a finger in his
face.
“It is you who are the coward.”
Instinctively, I longed to rush to Father’s aid. In the
candlelight,
I saw Father’s frame droop. His shoulders sagged. He looked
older
and frailer than I ever saw him before. I waited for Father
to
respond, willing him to defend himself, but he was silent.
“You dare speak to me about courage,” Mother continued,
probably unaware that she was close to shouting now. “You
don’t realize how much courage it takes to get up every
morning
and go to work, knowing that my daughter could be
interrogated
any day by her teachers at that school. Knowing that I’m
powerless to worship God like the Good Book says if I want
my
only child to see her thirteenth birthday. Knowing that my
husband thinks I’m an apostate because I would rather see
Chung-Cha survive to adulthood. And meanwhile you – for the
sake of a mere philosophy – are willing to condemn our
entire
family to prison camp. Of course you realize what those
guards
would do to Chung-Cha there, don’t you?” I prayed for sleep
to
shield me from my mother’s words, and I clenched my thin
blanket tight against me.
“And do you know what will happen to Chung-Cha if she
dies without ever learning the good news?” Father asked
quietly.
“She knows the good news,” Mother insisted. “Why isn’t
that enough? Why do you continue to endanger our only
child? Especially now with the inspectors here, looking to
make an example of traitors?”
“The Lord will care for us,” Father promised. I pretended
not
to hear the strain in his voice.
“You are certain of God’s provision,” Mother countered.
“Yet if Chung-Cha doesn’t die of cold and hunger this
winter,
she’ll just as likely die in a prison camp this spring. All
because
of your recklessness. You have the word of God in your
heart.
Why can’t you keep it there instead of speaking so openly
and
condemning us all?”
Father was speechless. I willed away the sob that was rising
in
my throat at the sight of my dear father so humiliated.
Could
Mother be right? I never met anyone like my father, who
memorized whole books of the Bible although Scripture was
outlawed in North Korea,
who whispered the gospel to his co-
workers but never was caught. Father’s faith was so strong
that I
was certain the Hasambong mountains themselves would one day
cave in at the sound of his prayers breathed in the
darkness. Could
this man – whose love for his Creator was so vast that the
entire
North Hamyong
Province hardly seemed large enough
to contain
it – really be wrong to love God so deeply? Was Father
foolish to
obey God so fearlessly?
Father always promised that God would care for us just like
he cared for the sparrows. Years ago, I was quick and eager
to
believe Father’s words of faith. But as each month of the
famine
grew worse, as each night I shivered from the cold and
clenched
my empty stomach while listening in on my parents’
disagreements, I wondered if my mother could be right. Seeds
of
doubt found fertile soil in my empty belly.
In our Hasambong village, even the sparrows were falling to
the ground from starvation, not to rise again.
Now with the inspectors here, the danger was even more
real. The prison camps were more than rumors. Two families
in
our small village
of Hasambong had been relocated
since the
start of the famine. One couple was caught with a stolen
potato.
The other family, whose infant I played with before she
starved
to death, was accused of cannibalism.
Was Mother right? With the People’s Safety Agency here
to inspect us, wouldn’t God understand if Father was less
vocal
about his faith, given the circumstances and grave dangers
to
our family?
My father sighed, and I held my breath to hear what he
would say in his defense. “I am not a fool. I know what
risks
come from following Jesus Christ.” Father’s voice wasn’t
angry
anymore, but gentle, like the snow that occasionally covered
the
Hasambong mountainside in a blanket of unblemished white.
“Chung-Cha is a gift from God … as are you.” Father reached
out his calloused, work-worn hand to wipe a tear off
Mother’s
gaunt cheek. She turned away with a disdainful snort.
Father continued, “Nevertheless, if I began to love these
gifts
more than the One who entrusted them to me, then I would not
be able to look my Savior in the face when I stand before
him
and give an account of my life.
“It is God who gives me breath.” The confidence of
Father’s quiet confession filled our cabin with
uncharacteristic
warmth. “And as long as my old worn-out heart keeps beating,
as long as these tired lungs continue to draw air, I will
not
remain silent. I cannot. I will proclaim the Good News until
my
Savior returns to rule the earth or until he calls me home.”
My heart swelled at Father’s words of triumph and faith. I
watched Mother’s face to see if she felt the same wave of
power, the same surge of hope, that transcended the
suffering
and fear – even the constant hunger – of our provincial
lives in
rural North Korea.
Mother brushed past Father and unpinned her hair. She
walked to the bed, yanked down the tattered blanket, and
hissed,
“Your stubborn faith will be the death of us all.”
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