|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
||||||||
 |
 |
||
 |
 |
 |
|
 |
|||
 |
|||
 |
|||
 |
|||
 |
|||
 |
|||
 |
|||
 |
|||
| It was such a small thing—an old Christmas hymn taught to a handful of students in a stuffy classroom. Small words about God and peace to people who had lived through the horrors of war. One simple song. Did it really matter? Maybe. If you add this one small act to a thousand other small acts, then maybe you have something. Like tiny drops of water, seemingly nothing by themselves, this song and the conversation in the hallway after class and the extra teaching sessions and the notes of encouragement—maybe when your words about love and peace are surrounded by a thousand other deeds, then the tiny drops become a stream, and over time, a mighty river. A river of God from tiny drops of water. A thousand touches of Jesus himself in a land that says God doesn’t exist. No wonder they deported her as a spy. She threatened their whole system. It’s such an irony because the last thing Miriam set out to do was make any waves. She was quiet, hated to draw attention to herself, soft-spoken, gentle and kind. And faithful. And that faithfulness scared a government so much they had to get rid of her. Now … perhaps I exaggerate. The Vietnamese government may have misconstrued a couple documents and misunderstood a couple phrases in the letters she wrote. Maybe they thought she really was an American spy. Maybe her deportation had nothing to do with her small acts of kindness and everything to do with misinterpreted signs of espionage. Maybe, one year after Tienemman Square, the government just wanted to flex its muscles and Miriam was an easy target. Continued... |
|||||||||
| Back |
Page 3 of 13
|
||||||||
