INTRODUCTION

WAR, AND PEACE

A NOTE TO READERS

I have been dreaming about this book for nearly a decade, perhaps even longer than that, if I include the literary longings I felt but reflexively pushed aside when my sons were still young children who demanded constant care. “When they are older, I shall pursue that dream,” I reasoned, an appropriate response to that season of life. My sons are older now.

Ms. Denise Chong wrote a book about my story titled The Girl in the Picture, a marvelous and detailed account of Vietnam’s civil war that affected me, most notably the famous picture that was taken of me as I fled a certain napalm attack. What a thorough job Ms. Chong did as it relates to history and to geography, to dropping of bombs and to victims of war. But there was a story beneath the story told there, a divine underpinning that for many decades even I could not detect, a set of spiritual stepping-stones that, unbeknownst to me, were paving a path to get me to God.

That is the story I wish to tell in these pages. I wish to tell of God’s faithfulness, when I was enveloped by mind-numbing fear. I wish to tell of his kind provision for me, when I was shelterless and hungry and cold. I wish to tell of his pursuit of me, when I was sure I would live the sum of my days marginalized and unloved. But mostly, I wish to tell of his peace, the “peace of God, which passeth all understanding,”[1] the peace that shall keep our hearts and minds through Christ Jesus. For what I desired more than healing for my wounds and hope for my heart was peace for my troubled soul. Peace! Yes, I must write about that peace.

I should say here that because I longed so deeply for peace and then—miracle of miracles—actually encountered peace, my approach to all of life centers on being at peace. I want to receive God’s gift of peace each day; I want to allow that peace to infiltrate my thoughts, my reactions, my work; I want to carry that peace with me wherever I go; and I want to share that peace with whomever I should meet.

What this means for you, my dear reader, is that if you came to this book in hopes of picking up weighty opinions on war, I fear I will disappoint you. I suppose there was a time when I did possess such opinions—and when we come to those bygone eras, I shall return briefly to that frame of mind—but across the nearly four decades that have elapsed since then, I have found peace a more captivating topic. My belief is that a careful study of peace will have a far greater unifying effect than even the most exhaustive excavation of the horrors of war. Living a life at peace, and being a people of peace, is how problems get solved.

My highest aim in writing down the words of this story? It is that you will fully know and fully live with the peace that I have found. If we shall meet at some point in the future, face-to-face, do you know how elated I would be to hear that my story pointed you to peace? There could be no greater compliment, I assure you!

A final duo of admissions before you begin. First, while I wish my memory were sharper for occasions now four decades old, perhaps it is God’s grace in my life that at times, while working to recreate scenes and events for you, I pondered and strained and came up short. When possible, I consulted relevant parties, in an effort to present the most accurate picture of how things went, but I acknowledge openly that because my story has been told thousands of times by as many storytellers, some of the information I present in these chapters will surely fail to square with the other accounts that exist. I stand behind what I have written here.

Second, I have been told by my friends who are fluent in English that I speak in a very distinct manner, one that is not commonplace in the world today. “Oh, yes!” I say with a giggle, “I have heard this many times before!” As you might guess, I grew up speaking Vietnamese, which is still the tongue that comes easiest for me. Later on, my story took me to Cuba, which explains how I am also fairly well versed in Spanish, and then to Canada, though I still am woefully ignorant of French. While living in Toronto, one of the most diverse cities in all the world, I began to study English, and while I truly applied myself—“Come, now, Kim,” I would exhort myself, “you must get this right!”—it is not a simple language to grasp. So many rules! So many exceptions! So many confusing conjugations to recall!

My writing partner, my editor, my publisher, and my agent all have assured me that my book indeed makes sense, but just in case a few stumbles and bumbles slip through our collective cracks, I ask you to forgive the mistakes as mine.