Ly-Huy
Chapter 5: A New Home
There was no time for conversation. His mother had a question she dared not ask. But Huy understood. Turning from the ramp, he called, “Kim is all right. You’ll see her.”
Huy did not know which flight his mother would be on. Nor did he know her destination. Yet he knew that somehow the missionary would see to it that she would see Kim.
Then—wonder of wonders!—his mother, his very own mother, was told to board the same plane he was on.
The children all sat or lay on their mats on the jet cargo plane. As many as could pressed their noses against the windows, watching the scenery below. The engines roared like giant beasts, but to Huy it sounded like a lullaby of freedom. When they were well out over the ocean, Huy was permitted to sit with his mother. Answering all her questions, he told her how he and Kim had scrounged for food before the two ladies took them in.
He hesitated a bit when he told her that he no longer believed in Buddha. “Buddha did not help us, Mother,” he explained. “It was the one true and living God who guided the missionary and the Vietnamese lady to Kim and me. He is the God of love. And He puts His love in the hearts of those who believe in Him. It was His love which made them care for us as they did, Mother.”
Huy expected his mother to be angry. He remembered well how she had wrapped their family idol in cloth and warned him to take good care of it. Instead of being cross, she smiled, saying, “My son, I, too, have come to know this true God. I have received His Son, the Lord Jesus Christ, into my heart. I learned about Him from the family who kindly took me in. It is indeed He who has brought us together.” Huy thought his happy heart would burst.
They talked of other things, but mostly of Kim. His mother wanted to know all about her. Many times tears came to her dark eyes, tears which she controlled and would not allow to fall. “If only she could know me—know that I am her mother,” she said. “But she was too young.”
Touching her hand, Huy said, “She will soon know you, Mother. She learns quickly.”
Long hours later, a shout arose from the boys at the window. “We’re here! We’re here!” The plane slowly slipped down and came to rest in America—a strange land and “foreign” to Huy and the others.
Inside the terminal they huddled close to each other in fear. Everything looked strange—the great building with its bright lights and all the white people scurrying about. The foreign smells and sounds were terrifying. A strong smell of fried food drifted from somewhere; men and women in uniforms moved briskly, speaking in a language that sounded sharp and quick.
One by one the Vietnamese boys were turned over to friendly families who were eager to love and care for them. All the while Huy was stretching his neck this way and that, hoping to see the one he knew.
Suddenly he spied a tall blond woman. This certainly must be the missionary’s sister. In her arms she held a sleeping, dark-haired child.
“Mother!” he shouted. “There is Kim! She’s asleep!”
All eyes turned to the mother. With the missionary she squeezed through the crowd to the waiting sister. “This is Kim’s mother,” the missionary explained. Without a word her sister laid the sleeping child in the mother’s arms. Her mother hugged Kim tenderly, saying, “Thank You, dear God. Thank You.”
Little Kim stirred in the warm, loving arms. Opening her eyes, she looked up and smiled.
“She knows me! She knows me!” her mother sobbed.
Huy could wait no longer. Moving closer he called, “Kim!” For a moment, she looked puzzled. Then she turned, trying to leap to him. He grabbed her and hugged her tightly. While he could not quite believe Kim remembered her mother, there was no doubt she remembered him.
As they walked to the waiting car, Huy thought, I know Kim is smart. But she can’t possibly remember Mother. She was too little when Mother was taken from us.
Suddenly he understood! It was the feel of his mother’s arms. Kim had mistaken her for Co Hai whose gentle arms she remembered well. He knew how often those arms had comforted him.
But now they were with their mother—their very own mother! And they were safe.
That night Huy, his mother, and the missionary slept at her sister’s home. He was in a room with two other boys. They slept on beds. But Huy had his very own mat on which to sleep.
Too excited to close his eyes, he studied the boys sleeping on high bunks. He pulled his mat farther from the beds thinking, Surely one of them will fall off while I’m asleep. There’s nothing to keep them on those beds.
He listened to the soft hum of the electric fan and the muffled laughter from the women talking in the kitchen. Even that sounded strange and new—so different from the crackle of gunfire and shouts in the narrow alleys of Saigon.
The next morning brought even more surprises. The missionary’s sister invited them to a big breakfast in her kitchen. Huy watched in amazement as large plates of eggs, toast, and sausages were set on the table. Kim sat on a booster seat between Huy and their mother, giggling and dropping pieces of toast on the floor. Their mother helped her, laughing too—such warm laughter Huy had not heard in years. As they ate, the missionary and her sister talked gently about God’s blessings, and for the first time, Huy felt as though they truly belonged to a family again. Each bite of food felt like a promise: a promise that they would never go hungry, and that they would always be loved.
Later that day, after the meal and a short rest, Huy and his mother watched Kim playing in the backyard. The little girl chased a red ball across the bright green grass, her hair catching the sunlight as she shrieked with joy. A neighbor’s dog barked on the other side of the fence, and Kim clapped her hands in delight. Huy and his mother sat side by side on the steps, amazed at how free she looked. It was a sight neither of them thought they would ever see—Kim running and laughing without fear, in a yard safe from soldiers and sirens. Watching her, Huy squeezed his mother’s hand and whispered, “She really is happy here.” His mother nodded, her eyes full of tears, but this time they were tears of thankfulness.
On Sunday morning, another new chapter began. The family dressed in clothes the missionary had prepared for them: Huy in a pressed shirt and pants, his mother in a simple but pretty dress, and Kim in a white dress with little pink flowers. They all piled into the missionary’s car and drove to a nearby church. The building was large and bright, filled with smiling faces and warm music. As they stepped inside, people greeted them with kind words and gentle hugs. During the service, Huy listened carefully to the singing and the sermon, understanding little but feeling a deep peace wash over him. His mother held Kim on her lap, softly humming along to the hymns. Huy’s heart swelled when he heard the pastor pray for them by name, thanking God for their safe arrival and new life. In that moment, Huy felt certain that God had truly brought them home.
Huy had much to think about. He thought of God and how good He was to bring his family together. He thought of the missionary. Suppose she had never come to my country. She could have stayed here in this nice land with her family. She would have been far away from the war and fear which we have always known. How peaceful and quiet it is here! There are no zooming war planes. There’s no noise of bursting bombs.
Outside the window, Huy could see the glow of streetlights. He imagined people driving safely home, children playing in the yards without fear. Here, they did not have to dive into ditches or hide under tables when planes flew overhead.
Why had the missionary gone to Vietnam to care for children? Huy knew. The love of God in her heart made her love the people of his land. She loved the Lord enough to obey His command, “Go ye into all the world and preach the Gospel to every creature.”
Before he slept that night Huy prayed, giving his life to God: “I, too, want to tell the Gospel of Your love, dear God. I want everyone to know that You love the world so much that You gave Your Son, the Lord Jesus Christ. And I’ll tell them how Jesus, the perfect One, died, sacrificing Himself for the sins of the world. But I’ll explain that He rose from the dead, lives now in Heaven, and some day—maybe soon—when Your trumpet will sound and Christ will come from Heaven for all who are His.”
He paused and listened again to the stillness of the room. Somewhere in the house a clock ticked softly, and for the first time he realized that time here felt safe, not like a countdown to danger.
Then Huy promised, “I shall study hard in these strange American schools. And when I’m old enough I shall go wherever You want me to go, dear Lord. I, too, shall tell of You, the true and living God—the God of love and salvation. But between now and then I want to share this good news with all I meet right here in America.”
After the “Amen,” Huy slept peacefully with joy in his heart. For the first time in many years, he dreamed not of hiding or running, but of wide fields and new friends, of laughter, and of a future bright with hope.
Chapter 5: A New Home
There was no time for conversation. His mother had a question she dared not ask. But Huy understood. Turning from the ramp, he called, “Kim is all right. You’ll see her.”
Huy did not know which flight his mother would be on. Nor did he know her destination. Yet he knew that somehow the missionary would see to it that she would see Kim.
Then—wonder of wonders!—his mother, his very own mother, was told to board the same plane he was on.
The children all sat or lay on their mats on the jet cargo plane. As many as could pressed their noses against the windows, watching the scenery below. The engines roared like giant beasts, but to Huy it sounded like a lullaby of freedom. When they were well out over the ocean, Huy was permitted to sit with his mother. Answering all her questions, he told her how he and Kim had scrounged for food before the two ladies took them in.
He hesitated a bit when he told her that he no longer believed in Buddha. “Buddha did not help us, Mother,” he explained. “It was the one true and living God who guided the missionary and the Vietnamese lady to Kim and me. He is the God of love. And He puts His love in the hearts of those who believe in Him. It was His love which made them care for us as they did, Mother.”
Huy expected his mother to be angry. He remembered well how she had wrapped their family idol in cloth and warned him to take good care of it. Instead of being cross, she smiled, saying, “My son, I, too, have come to know this true God. I have received His Son, the Lord Jesus Christ, into my heart. I learned about Him from the family who kindly took me in. It is indeed He who has brought us together.” Huy thought his happy heart would burst.
They talked of other things, but mostly of Kim. His mother wanted to know all about her. Many times tears came to her dark eyes, tears which she controlled and would not allow to fall. “If only she could know me—know that I am her mother,” she said. “But she was too young.”
Touching her hand, Huy said, “She will soon know you, Mother. She learns quickly.”
Long hours later, a shout arose from the boys at the window. “We’re here! We’re here!” The plane slowly slipped down and came to rest in America—a strange land and “foreign” to Huy and the others.
Inside the terminal they huddled close to each other in fear. Everything looked strange—the great building with its bright lights and all the white people scurrying about. The foreign smells and sounds were terrifying. A strong smell of fried food drifted from somewhere; men and women in uniforms moved briskly, speaking in a language that sounded sharp and quick.
One by one the Vietnamese boys were turned over to friendly families who were eager to love and care for them. All the while Huy was stretching his neck this way and that, hoping to see the one he knew.
Suddenly he spied a tall blond woman. This certainly must be the missionary’s sister. In her arms she held a sleeping, dark-haired child.
“Mother!” he shouted. “There is Kim! She’s asleep!”
All eyes turned to the mother. With the missionary she squeezed through the crowd to the waiting sister. “This is Kim’s mother,” the missionary explained. Without a word her sister laid the sleeping child in the mother’s arms. Her mother hugged Kim tenderly, saying, “Thank You, dear God. Thank You.”
Little Kim stirred in the warm, loving arms. Opening her eyes, she looked up and smiled.
“She knows me! She knows me!” her mother sobbed.
Huy could wait no longer. Moving closer he called, “Kim!” For a moment, she looked puzzled. Then she turned, trying to leap to him. He grabbed her and hugged her tightly. While he could not quite believe Kim remembered her mother, there was no doubt she remembered him.
As they walked to the waiting car, Huy thought, I know Kim is smart. But she can’t possibly remember Mother. She was too little when Mother was taken from us.
Suddenly he understood! It was the feel of his mother’s arms. Kim had mistaken her for Co Hai whose gentle arms she remembered well. He knew how often those arms had comforted him.
But now they were with their mother—their very own mother! And they were safe.
That night Huy, his mother, and the missionary slept at her sister’s home. He was in a room with two other boys. They slept on beds. But Huy had his very own mat on which to sleep.
Too excited to close his eyes, he studied the boys sleeping on high bunks. He pulled his mat farther from the beds thinking, Surely one of them will fall off while I’m asleep. There’s nothing to keep them on those beds.
He listened to the soft hum of the electric fan and the muffled laughter from the women talking in the kitchen. Even that sounded strange and new—so different from the crackle of gunfire and shouts in the narrow alleys of Saigon.
The next morning brought even more surprises. The missionary’s sister invited them to a big breakfast in her kitchen. Huy watched in amazement as large plates of eggs, toast, and sausages were set on the table. Kim sat on a booster seat between Huy and their mother, giggling and dropping pieces of toast on the floor. Their mother helped her, laughing too—such warm laughter Huy had not heard in years. As they ate, the missionary and her sister talked gently about God’s blessings, and for the first time, Huy felt as though they truly belonged to a family again. Each bite of food felt like a promise: a promise that they would never go hungry, and that they would always be loved.
Later that day, after the meal and a short rest, Huy and his mother watched Kim playing in the backyard. The little girl chased a red ball across the bright green grass, her hair catching the sunlight as she shrieked with joy. A neighbor’s dog barked on the other side of the fence, and Kim clapped her hands in delight. Huy and his mother sat side by side on the steps, amazed at how free she looked. It was a sight neither of them thought they would ever see—Kim running and laughing without fear, in a yard safe from soldiers and sirens. Watching her, Huy squeezed his mother’s hand and whispered, “She really is happy here.” His mother nodded, her eyes full of tears, but this time they were tears of thankfulness.
On Sunday morning, another new chapter began. The family dressed in clothes the missionary had prepared for them: Huy in a pressed shirt and pants, his mother in a simple but pretty dress, and Kim in a white dress with little pink flowers. They all piled into the missionary’s car and drove to a nearby church. The building was large and bright, filled with smiling faces and warm music. As they stepped inside, people greeted them with kind words and gentle hugs. During the service, Huy listened carefully to the singing and the sermon, understanding little but feeling a deep peace wash over him. His mother held Kim on her lap, softly humming along to the hymns. Huy’s heart swelled when he heard the pastor pray for them by name, thanking God for their safe arrival and new life. In that moment, Huy felt certain that God had truly brought them home.
Huy had much to think about. He thought of God and how good He was to bring his family together. He thought of the missionary. Suppose she had never come to my country. She could have stayed here in this nice land with her family. She would have been far away from the war and fear which we have always known. How peaceful and quiet it is here! There are no zooming war planes. There’s no noise of bursting bombs.
Outside the window, Huy could see the glow of streetlights. He imagined people driving safely home, children playing in the yards without fear. Here, they did not have to dive into ditches or hide under tables when planes flew overhead.
Why had the missionary gone to Vietnam to care for children? Huy knew. The love of God in her heart made her love the people of his land. She loved the Lord enough to obey His command, “Go ye into all the world and preach the Gospel to every creature.”
Before he slept that night Huy prayed, giving his life to God: “I, too, want to tell the Gospel of Your love, dear God. I want everyone to know that You love the world so much that You gave Your Son, the Lord Jesus Christ. And I’ll tell them how Jesus, the perfect One, died, sacrificing Himself for the sins of the world. But I’ll explain that He rose from the dead, lives now in Heaven, and some day—maybe soon—when Your trumpet will sound and Christ will come from Heaven for all who are His.”
He paused and listened again to the stillness of the room. Somewhere in the house a clock ticked softly, and for the first time he realized that time here felt safe, not like a countdown to danger.
Then Huy promised, “I shall study hard in these strange American schools. And when I’m old enough I shall go wherever You want me to go, dear Lord. I, too, shall tell of You, the true and living God—the God of love and salvation. But between now and then I want to share this good news with all I meet right here in America.”
After the “Amen,” Huy slept peacefully with joy in his heart. For the first time in many years, he dreamed not of hiding or running, but of wide fields and new friends, of laughter, and of a future bright with hope.