CHAPTER 26

THE VIETNAM VETERANS MEMORIAL, WASHINGTON, DC

A TIME TO FORGIVE

NOVEMBER 1996

On a frigid morning in November 1996, a little more than two years after Thomas was born, I woke up in a Washington, DC, hotel room, eager for the day to begin. I had been asked to speak at the annual Veterans Day ceremony held in front of the Vietnam Veterans Memorial on the famed National Mall, with more than three thousand people expected to attend, and tens of thousands additional viewers watching the televised event.

I believed passionately in the remarks I had prepared and hoped that in some small way I could persuade those listening that regardless of the question, war never is the answer. I had discovered peace and wanted to share it. I had discovered love and knew of its healing balm. What I could not have anticipated was that my lofty theories about these moral ideals was about to be put to the grandest of tests.

Even though I laud the many benefits of knowing my Jesus, of surrendering to him and submitting to him, of obeying him and seeking to please him, I acknowledge that living for him comes at quite a high cost. For me, the weightiest aspect of remaining in relationship with Jesus was a little thing called forgiveness. I was grateful that God had forgiven me. But extending it to those who had wronged me, I was unsure if I could forgive.

The topic of forgiveness had initially surfaced for me years prior, long before I met Toan, when I had read two short verses of Scripture in the Gospel of Luke. Jesus said to his disciples: “But I say unto you which hear, Love your enemies, do good to them which hate you, Bless them that curse you, and pray for them which despitefully use you.”[25]

This cannot be right, I thought. Maybe I misread it. I read the verses again, focusing on the last part this time around: “Bless them that curse you, and pray for them which despitefully use you.”

Bless them that curse me? Pray for them which despitefully use me? But how could this possibly be done?

I stared at those sentences for a long time and then began to laugh. “Oh, Lord!” I said aloud. “Do you not recall how many enemies I have?”

So I began logging my “enemies list.” At the top of the list, of course, were all those involved in the destruction of my country and the dropping of the napalm bombs that forever changed my life. The strategists who drew up war plans, the commanders who ordered air strikes, the pilots who dropped bombs—I was furious with them all. I did not have names for all of these guilty parties, but I reserved places on my list for each one.

Next on my list were communist officials, man after man who had killed my dreams. They had used me for propaganda and had abused me day by day, and by way of recompense, I believed they should pay. If a person hits you one time or twice, perhaps forgiveness may be extended to him. But to suffer blow after blow, day after day, abuse after devastating abuse? That person must not be forgiven. I was surer than sure about that.

I sat with my list for the better part of an hour, adding names or positions as they came to mind, and at the end of the consuming exercise, I shut my Bible with more than a little force, thinking, Forgive them? Forget it. There is just no way. Christianity is too difficult a thing.

I struggled with the prospect of accepting and implementing those lofty-sounding instructions. The wrongs that had been done to me were deeply grievous, and I feared that forgiving the wrongdoers would equate to dismissing or even approving of their sins. How would justice ever be served, I wondered, if I myself did not carry my cause?

And yet, I kept finding other Scriptures about forgiveness.[26] I was being asked to be kind and tenderhearted, to believe that vengeance was God’s responsibility, not mine.

I understood what God was asking, but I had many answers for God.

“Father, yes, but you do not understand how severe is my pain!”

“Yes, I know you say to forgive, but the terror, the destruction, the abuse, the scars!”

“Yes, I know that vengeance is to be yours, but all these years that have been taken from me! Is there not justice for me to be paid?”

“Yes, forgiveness is the wise thing to do, but Lord, I cannot ever forgive.”

“Yes, but . . .”

“Yes.”

“But . . . no.”

Even the honest question that Jesus’ disciple Peter posed regarding just how many times a godly person is to forgive[27] fueled my fury. “Seven times?” Peter asked, to which Jesus replied, “Seventy times seven.” That equals four hundred ninety times. For me, if I factored in well over a decade of tragedy and abuse from those on my list, the total came to four or five thousand wrongdoings against me. Why bother with only 10 percent of what was needed for me?

The lunacy of my thinking would not dawn on me until I stood at that point in time and space when I had to decide whether I would travel the road paved with life and peace and joy, or the one marked by suffering and bitterness and rage. Would I hand over my life to the lordship of Jesus or not? Which path would I choose?

Back in Washington, I was shivering when I took the stage at last. “Dear friends,” I began with a quivering voice, “I am very happy to be with you today. . . . As you know, I am the little girl who was running to escape from the napalm fire. I do not want to talk about the war because I cannot change history. I only want you to remember the tragedy of war in order to do things to stop fighting and killing around the world. I have suffered a lot from both physical and emotional pain. Sometimes I thought I could not live, but God saved me and gave me faith and hope. Even if I could talk face-to-face with the pilot who dropped the bombs, I would tell him we cannot change history, but we should try to do good things for the present and for the future to promote peace.”

As I concluded my remarks and the buglers began to play “Taps,” I exhaled the significance of the moment and wiped tears from my cheeks and eyes. The ensuing moments were a blur of activity, as hosts led me quickly from the stage to a police cruiser that was waiting to take me back to my hotel. I did my best to greet those who were waiting to shake my hand or give me a hug, even as I sensed the coordinator’s urgency in leaving the scene. And in the crush of people was someone who needed my forgiveness.

Captain John Plummer was a US Vietnam veteran who had seen my story recounted on a television show, Where Are They Now? Seeing Nick Ut’s photo brought back horrific war memories for the army captain. When I met him that Veterans Day, he identified himself as the person who coordinated dropping the napalm bombs that day on Route 1 in Trang Bang. Now a pastor, Reverend Plummer said, “Kim, I am sorry. I am so very, very sorry. Will you forgive me for what I have done?”[28]

When Reverend Plummer asked me that question on Veterans Day, I reached for his hands, I looked deep into his eyes, and I said, “It is okay. I forgive. I forgive!”

I was thankful I could offer forgiveness to one person, but what about the others? How could I possibly extend forgiveness to them when, in some cases, I did not even know who the people were? Yes, I knew they were part of a certain military group, or that they were from a particular part of this country or that, but how was I to go to them to forgive them when I did not know their names?

I had memorized a lovely verse written by an Old Testament prophet that describes God’s promise to those who love him: “Call unto me, and I will answer thee, and show thee great and mighty things, which thou knowest not.”[29] And so I did just that. I would wake in the morning and sense a familiar bitterness eclipsing my thoughts and prayers, and so I would simply pause and take a deep breath and call unto the Lord. “Oh, God,” I would say aloud, there in my bed, “please show me things I do not yet know about how to truly forgive those I presently despise. They have harmed me so deeply, Father, that I cannot think straight, and yet I know that your Word asks me to forgive—and even bless—them. Please explain to me how I am supposed to get that done.”

I never received a clear answer from the Lord in response to those myriad requests, but do you know what happened to me? Over time, as I begged God for wisdom I noticed that instead of muttering curses toward my enemies, toward those who had wronged me, I began praying for them. A certain journalist would come to mind, for example, one who had written falsehoods about my life, and instead of bristling in my spirit toward that person, I would say, “Father, please protect him. Please prosper him according to your will. Help him to do excellent work today. Please, would you give him your peace?”

I would move from there into a time of prayer for all the leaders of communist regimes, the same governmental structure that had ruined so much of my life. “God, please enlighten those men today with your presence and power. Give them spiritual eyes with which to see.”

I would pray in this way for everyone who was involved in the Vietnam War, for those who had marginalized me because of my unsightly scars, for those who had misunderstood me, or neglected to help me, or failed to treat me as a human being who had real feelings . . . for them all, for every last one on my list.

The more I prayed, the better I felt, and the better I felt, the lighter my spirits were. At some point—two or three months into this practice, perhaps—I looked along the lines of my prayer journal and realized that the people I had been fervently praying for were the same ones who used to be on my list of enemies! Wow, I remember thinking, my heart must surely be changing, for the very people I wanted to murder I now feel nothing but love.

My heart was no longer angry. I no longer looked for revenge. My enemy list had become my prayer list, and my fury had declared a cease-fire.

When I saw all of those names etched on the wall of the Vietnam Veterans Memorial something stirred up inside me—a calling, I think it was. Yes, I grieved for all of the men and women who had lost their lives because of the war. But equally true, I grieved for all the children who had been wounded during wars, young boys and girls who had nobody to fight for them, nobody to help them put the pieces of their lives back together again. I knew the predicament they faced! I was one of them too.

Following the Veterans Day event, I took steps to establish what is now known as The KIM Foundation International, a nonprofit organization that helps fund groups already actively involved in providing relief for the world’s more than six million children severely injured or permanently disabled in wars during the past decade alone. These groups provide prosthetic limbs and orthopedic devices, medication and wheelchairs, rehabilitation services and counseling, and they help integrate wounded kids back into the communities in which they live.

Of great importance to me is our work in Uganda, where we funded the development of the Nakyessa Day and Boarding School. Throughout that country, more than 90 percent of kids fail to complete high school requirements, which means they are at risk of not finding employment as young adults. The reason for this dropout rate comes down to a lack of facilities. There is no money to build buildings, and without school buildings, there cannot be school.

In conjunction with one of our partners, High Adventure Gospel Communication Ministries, we were able to build classrooms, an administration building, and residential rooms—facilities that today support more than seven hundred kids, ranging in age from five to seventeen. I have been to the school. I have hugged those children. I have told them that I understand how devastating it feels to be told you cannot complete your education. And I have seen the hope in their eyes as they were invited back to school.

Each time I receive an update from my team regarding another child who has been served well, there at Nakyessa or at any of our other projects, I cannot help but pump my fists into the air. “Yes! Our efforts are making a difference.” That truly is enough for me.

As my calendar flipped from November to December, I received the greatest Christmas present I could imagine: I learned that I was pregnant with Toan’s and my second child. I told the news to Toan and Thomas together. “Guess what, Thomas? Daddy and I are preparing a best friend for you! You will never have to play alone again.”

Once again, Toan and I consulted the Bible for possible names. We held over “Rebecca” for a daughter, and for a son we decided on Stephen, after the faithful man in the Bible martyred for his spiritual courage and strength. I rubbed my belly in eager anticipation, ready for that little germ of a baby to start to grow, ready for the next nine months to unfold. I had been down this road before and knew it was a lovely, enjoyable ride. Here we go! I cheered to my midsection, hoping my little one could already detect my voice.

Unfortunately, my second pregnancy was not quite as smooth as my pregnancy with Thomas had been: For the first five months, I was so sick that I could not keep even a single bite of food down; strong smells made me queasy; and I became so weak that I wondered if I would make it through. But then little two-year-old Thomas would come barreling into the room, bury his face in my belly, begin chatting to his sibling, and all my concerns would melt away.

I was under the care of the same marvelous doctor who had seen me through my first pregnancy, which gave me tremendous peace. “You are doing just fine, Kim,” Doctor Phillips said to me during those terribly sick months. “Many women experience morning sickness such as yours.”

I was relieved. All the years I had spent receiving negative medical reports from white-jacketed “people in the know” had caused me to be immediately fearful whenever I entered any doctor’s office. “Ahh, finally, a good report!” I said to Doctor Phillips. “I believe you! I will be fine.”

Nine months later, in the wee hours, I called Kathy Parkinson, my friend from church, and said, “Kathy! I know that it is two-thirty in the morning, but I am having my baby soon! Can you babysit Thomas while Toan and I go to hospital?”

Thankfully, Kathy and Gary lived only five minutes away from us. Four minutes later, there was a soft knock on our front door. Kathy was standing there, still in her pajamas. Oh, the blessing of a faithful friend.

In the end, we welcomed Stephen, a perfectly formed, perfectly healthy baby boy, and my husband proved far steadier on his feet than he had upon Thomas’s entrance into the world. Once again, God was showing us that he is always up to something good.

All of the initial publicity of my story brought about a fortuitous result. An executive film producer discovered my story and contacted me. “I would like to turn your story into a documentary,” he explained to me, “with you serving as a creative partner, of course.” The moment I agreed to participate, a line producer, Shelley Saywell, was assigned to the project and we began the process of mapping out key scenes to tell my story.

Kim’s Story premiered in Canada in 1997. Soon after, a gentleman from Montreal was so touched by all that had happened to me that he offered to make arrangements for my family and me to be reunited with my parents. It would be the answer to a decades-long prayer. What are you up to, God? I wondered.

“I cannot divulge that information just yet,” I imagined God replying. “But I think you will like what unfolds.”

So many years ago, my heart was filled to the brim with bitterness, darkness, and rage, like a cup running over with thick, sludgy coffee, so dark that it swallows all light. I had suffered so much and lost so much that I saw no reason to live. Everything was awful, everyone was awful, life itself was awful, and quite candidly, I just wanted out.

For too long, I carried around that black sludge, let it slosh up the sides of my inner world and splash out onto innocent passersby. Darkness is heavy to carry, and I looked every bit the part. I was burdened. I was weighed down. I was sinking under the load I’d allowed. But thankfully, I did not remain there forever. God himself chose to speak into my pain. “Kim,” the Lord whispered to me one day, “you simply must pour the black sludge out. Day by day, a bit at a time, until there is no more darkness there.”

That instruction felt impossible to carry out, given the volume of sludge inside. But then I would remember the instructions I had been given: a bit at a time. I wondered if I could do that.

I started with my list, choosing simply to pray blessing over one person instead of cursing his or her name. I then began to pray for two, and then for three, and then for the entire list. The more frequently and fervently I prayed in this way, the more sludge I was able to pour out. Of course, it was not I who did the pouring, but God. He is the only de-sludger there is!

Sometimes, in a moment of weakness, I would befriend my bitterness again, and like a river raging over a broken dam, my cup would refill with wretchedness and rage. I would sense that level of blackest sludge rising in my soul and think, Why did I do that again?

The decision to pick back up my pain was never worth it. Forgiveness is always the better path.

Eventually, as I got better and better at making wise emotional choices, I noticed that the darkness remained receded and that I was being filled up with something good. It was peace. It was light. It was understanding, compassion, and love. And all of it was from the Lord; he was refilling me with clear, perfectly pure water.

As I began picking up other practices such as confessing my sinfulness and pride and meditating carefully upon God’s Word, the clearer and purer that fresh water seemed. Who can gaze upon a crystal-blue sea without marveling at the beauty it holds? That is precisely how I felt as I took in my beautiful state. I had been freed from bitterness. I had been freed from fury. I had been washed clean and was seeing the fruit of transformation in my life. I was not merely saying I wanted to become more like Jesus; by his power, this transition was actually becoming so.