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The ache in her leg woke Hannah hours before dawn. She had been dreaming of her wedding day. She wore the hanbok dress, and Mrs. Stern had arranged her hair with a tender and gentle touch. All their Secret Seminary friends were there, gathered in the Sterns’ upstairs den. A light breeze wafted in the open windows, kissing her cheeks and making the frilly curtains dance. Mr. Stern held his large, black Bible, but Hannah couldn’t hear his words. She couldn’t focus on anything but Simon. He wore one of Mr. Stern’s suits, and it swallowed up his hands like the gown he wore at the graduation ceremony right before they left Yanji. Hannah had just lifted her face to receive his kiss when the smarting in her bone stole the moment away from her forever.
She didn’t stir, trying desperately to cling to his warmth and closeness. She held her breath, as if exhaling too hard might blow the memory of her dream away. Why did she torture herself with hollow hopes? His smell lingered in her mind even longer than the memory of his touch. She wished he were here, wished she could tell him how sorry she was. She needed him to know how much she missed him. Even now, when she prayed for him, she sensed only despair. She kept her eyes closed and tried to picture him. Where was he now? In the darkness, bent over the ground, a heaviness hanging over him like an invisible cage. She longed to go near to where he crouched. Maybe there was something she could say to him. Some way to encourage him.
“When peace like a river attendeth my way ...”
She pictured herself kneeling beside him, allowing her music to push back the discouragement, the fear, the exhaustion. She stretched out her hand, visualizing God’s peace and healing flow through her fingers to wherever he was.
“When sorrows like sea billows roll...”
She imagined she was stroking his hair as she sang with a clarity and conviction she never experienced before. The heaviness lifted, gradually at first and then more dramatically. Her praise was a shield that encased them both. They were wrapped in its brilliance, dazzled by its majesty.
“Whatever my lot, thou hast taught me to say, ‘It is well, it is well with my soul.’”
The moment was glorious, the first time she sensed the presence of the Holy Spirit so powerfully since she left the Secret Seminary. Exhausted, she wrapped the blankets around herself, thankful she had been able to share such a beautiful experience with Simon.
If only it had been him and not just a vision, it would have been a truly perfect moment.
***
At first, Simon didn’t join in the prayers of the other prisoners as they huddled underneath the dorm. Other than Mal-Chin, they were all strangers. Who knew which ones might report back to the National Security Agency? Which one would turn them all in for an extra ration of gruel or a half-day vacation from the mines? He had already witnessed his own weaknesses. He didn’t have any trust left in his fellow men, no matter how sincere their prayers sounded. Hadn’t he once prayed just as fervently?
They extinguished the lamp, and Simon had to rely on his hearing alone to determine who was speaking. He immediately recognized Mal-Chin’s voice, the gentle tenor that asked for grace and mercy on behalf of the camp guards. A few others prayed for loved ones — a sister who had already crossed the border into China, a son who had been imprisoned in a separate camp. Simon wondered who he should pray for. Orphaned during the Great Hardship, he hadn’t had contact with any living relatives in years. He doubted he could find his uncles or grandparents even if he wanted to. He thought about the Sterns back in Yanji and silently asked God to bless their ministry, and he prayed for the other Secret Seminary students.
In the recesses of his mind, he remembered the last hymn they sang together in the Sterns’ den, the evocative melody haunting him in this cold underground cellar. If he focused hard enough, he could almost hear Hannah’s sweet soprano, and the skin on his shoulder tingled. He might never hear her sing again until they both were safe in heaven, but he clung to the memory like a shipwrecked sailor clutching at debris. The room fell silent, and Simon wondered if the others recognized how sacred that moment was. He held his breath and refused to move, afraid the moment would pass and he would realize Hannah wasn’t actually next to him.
The following silence surrounded him like a vacuum, drawing the words from his throat.
“Though Satan should buffet, though trials should come ...”
He shut his eyes. If he sang some, maybe he could keep her memory from vanishing like vapor.
“Let this blessed assurance control ...”
His voice never rose above a hush, but he was joined by several others, men who had endured suffering and loss just as he had, but still found courage to rejoice in their Lord.
“That Christ has regarded my helpless estate and has shed his own blood for my soul.”
When the song ended, no one spoke. Reluctantly, like men condemned to march back into a blizzard after basking in the warmth of a glorious fire, they opened the door to the cellar and returned in pairs and trios to where their comrades slept on, unaware that heaven had reached down to the bowels of the prison and freed men from their chains, if only for an instant.
From then on, Simon attended the underground meetings no matter how exhausted he was. He appreciated the fellowship and encouragement, but he went mostly to relive that first night when he could almost feel Hannah’s breath on the back of his neck as she sang.
The men spent most of their time downstairs in prayer or Bible study. Simon and two of the others had memorized Scripture before their arrests, and the group worked together to learn as many passages as possible by heart. Simon had the most extensive reserve of them all, and the men were eager to tap into his mind’s vast resources. One of his biggest fears was that he would forget some of the words before he could pass them on to others. He often wished for pen and paper, but it was far too dangerous to leave any tangible evidence of their treason.
In addition to Scripture memory work, the men sometimes talked of life outside the camp. One name came up more than any other.
“Who is this Moses everyone talks about?” Simon asked Mal-Chin one night after everyone else returned to the upper level.
“A deliverer.” Simon couldn’t see Mal-Chin, but he heard his friend adjust his position on the hard floor. “They say he’s arranged for Christian leaders to escape the prison camps. Once, he even rescued an evangelist the night before he was sentenced to be hanged.”
“Have you ever met him?”
“No,” Mal-Chin answered. “No one here has.”
Simon paused. “You’re sure it’s not just dreams of the condemned?”
He was thankful that the darkness hid the older man’s face. As the weeks passed in the mines, Simon found hope the most bitter tormenter of all. The sooner he could stop pining for Hannah, the easier it would be to submit to the guards’ abuse, to switch off his mind, to shovel his coal like they demanded. He was homesick, not for a place, but for her, and nothing could cure him of his illness.
His question was answered by silence, and Simon worried for a moment he had offended his friend.
Finally, Mal-Chin took a deep breath. “If I didn’t believe that someone on the outside was looking out for me, I’d go mad. Before working in the mines, I spent time in underground detainment. I witnessed things there ... heard things that would turn your hair just as white as mine.” His voice grew even softer. “I survived on nothing but dreams, dreams that one day I would join my family again, dreams that somebody — Moses, an angel, God himself, I didn’t care who — would see my suffering. Even if I was never set free, I just wanted someone on the outside to know where I was, to see me down here, to understand that I’m a real, flesh-and-blood man.” Simon heard the tightness in his friend’s throat. “I still dream, Brother. I have to. We all do. That’s why if Moses doesn’t exist, if he’s just a legend we prisoners made up to hold onto foolish hope, I’d rather keep believing a lie than face such an awful truth.”
Simon said nothing. He hoped Hannah would visit him tonight in his prayers and sing to him once more, but he knew only dreamless darkness awaited him like always.