The Salem Witch Trials & Forgiveness

             As the congregation sang a Psalm, Rev. Samuel Willard made his way down the aisle of Old South Church in Boston. This Sunday was different than most, having been set aside for prayer and fasting. But the service would take a dramatic turn as the Reverend walked past pew number one—where the most prestigious citizens usually sat.

            Judge Samuel Sewall handed a note to his pastor.

            Rev. Willard hesitated, took the note, walked to the front, and continued the service. Later, though, he unfolded the paper in his hand and looked down at the Judge.

            Judge Sewall stood to his feet with his head hung low as he heard his penned words read aloud from his pastor who came down from the pulpit and stood in front of this prominent man.

            Who was this judge?

            Five years earlier he’d been one of nine specially-appointed judges who presided over the Salem Witch Trials—an awful blight on our nation’s history—a time when Christian believers in God were falsely accused of being witches—some say more than 200. Judge Sewall, along with his peers, declared a guilty verdict on twenty who were sentenced to death—nineteen being hung and one crushed.

 

            For the next five years, Judge Sewall lived with guilt, realizing he violated not only the laws of England but more importantly, God. In his diary he recorded his thoughts—the depth of his guilt and wondering if the death of some of his children was divine retribution. (Eleven of fourteen died before adulthood.)

            Then Sewall told of his son reading this Bible verse: “If ye had known what this meaneth, I will have mercy and not sacrifice, ye would not have condemned the guiltless.” (Matthew 12:7)

            The Judge wrote in his diary that this convicted him with certainty that he was guilty of twenty innocent lives. Thus, he penned the letter he handed to Rev. Willard that Sunday—one of deep remorse, confessing he’d erred in sentencing the innocent citizens, begging forgiveness for his part in their condemnation and deaths.

            The congregation was deadly silent as Rev. Willard read the Judge’s note aloud.

 

            I wonder what went through Rev. Willard’s thoughts as he read Sewall’s letter to the congregation. Did his mind instantly flashback, knowing full-well one of the doomed was his own kin? Had he held contempt for the Judge those five years and cringed when he walked past that pew every Sunday? Did he ever eye the Judge from the raised pulpit with thoughts of condemnation? Or was his heart like Jesus’—quietly whispering forgive Him, Lord. He knoweth not what he did.

            I’m not certain, but I’ve surmised by the fact the Reverend met the Judge on equal footing and read the note standing before him, face to face, he made peace. He then addressed the congregation: “He (the Judge) desires to take the blame and shame of it … desiring prayers that God … would pardon that sin …” ¹

 

            I’m awed and personally humbled by the Reverend’s words. It does seem he accepted Judge Sewall’s remorse and apology sincerely.

            I’m also ashamed to admit I likely wouldn’t have done the same thing. How do I know that? Because I’ve nursed hatred and unforgiveness to people who took part in declaring our unfounded guilt decades ago, harming one of our children, and nearly destroying our family.

            You, Sarah? I didn’t think you had a vindictive bone in your body—you might think.

            Yes, me. I’ve found forgiving those who harm me easier than those who hurt my husband or children. Touch them, and I’d go ballistic!

            Then I learned this story about my ancestor, Samuel Willard, and I was bowed low—like the other gentleman, Samuel Sewall. If Rev. Willard could forgive “that man,” could I follow his example?

            Sometimes I feel like I’ll never really 100% forgive those who inflicted un-doable hurt and harm, although I am closer and no longer hold thoughts of harming them myself. (I know. This doesn’t sound like a believer in Jesus. Does it?)

            Yet, I carry Willard-DNA within. Rev. Samuel Willard is one of my 8th great-grandfathers. That humbles me, making me plea to God to help me move past it all, like my ancestor did.

            But fully forgive? When no apology comes? No remorse? Impossible!

            But with God all things are possible. (Matthew 19:26) So by His Own Word, the Bible, I claim my “inability” void. I can forgive. I must.

            Also, what am I to do about Jesus Who lives within me—differently than my Willard-DNA but is present in my life. Shall I recklessly toss aside His Words on the cross? “Father, forgive them; for they know not what they do.” (Luke 23:34)

            Jesus! My supreme example!

            This drives me to my knees at the foot of the cross where the One Who was guiltless died. Where his final Words bore no condemnation. Only forgiveness, overcoming the impossible.

 

            Judge Sewall changed over those years of conviction after the death of the twenty. But he never totally forgave himself. Instead, he “wore” his sorrow, paying for the rest of his days by wearing a goat’s hair shirt under his clothing—an irritating “garment” meant to never let him forget what he had done, through his verdict, taking lives. None of the other eight judges, complicit in the faulty verdict of the twenty at the Salem Witch Trials, ever publicly confessed their guilt.

 

            In the Massachusetts State House chamber in Boston are five murals, each depicting a significant event in our nation’s history. It so happens that one of the paintings ² shows Rev. Samuel Willard, reading the Judge’s letter of repentance.

            May the message of that painting sink into the depths of my soul. If this 8th great-grandfather of mine could forgive Judge Samuel Sewall, can I forgive the worst people have done to us?

            If Jesus could hang on a cross and cry out, “Father, forgive them,” will I also do so? Can you, who’ve endured unfathomable hurt at the hands of another, forgive? It’s possible!

 

Have thine own way, Lord! Have thine own way! Thou art the potter, I am the clay.

Mold me and make me after thy will, while I am waiting, yielded and still.

 

Have thine own way, Lord! Have thine own way! Search me and try me, Savior today!

Wash me just now, Lord, wash me just now, as in thy presence humbly I bow.

 

Have thine own way, Lord! Have thine own way! Wounded and weary, help me I pray!

Power, all power, surely is thine! Touch me and heal me, Savior divine!

 

Have thine own way, Lord! Have thine own way! Hold o’er my being absolute sway.

Fill with thy Spirit till all shall see Christ only, always, living in me!

 

                                          (from the hymn, Have Thine Own Way, by Adelaide A. Pollard, 1906, public domain)

 

 *SalemWitchTrials *SamuelWillard *SamuelSewall *OldSouthChurch *MassachusettsStateHouseBoston *forgiveness *DNA

 

¹ LaPlante, Eve—Salem Witch Judge: The Life and Repentance of Samuel Sewall

 

² Herter, Albert—Dawn of Tolerance in Massachusetts—Public Repentance of Judge

  Samuel Sewall for His Actions in the Witchcraft Trials, malegislature.gov, 1942.

Watch Israel!

             The nation of Israel has just gone through a week+ of bloodshed and horror to the nth degree. It all began on Shabbat, the Jewish people’s holy day and at the time of year when many of their religious holidays fall. Evil knew the Jews would not be on their guard that morning.

            I’ve been deeply distressed this week with comments coming out of some who imply Israel deserves this. “After all, they killed Jesus!”

            No one deserves what happened. Innocence doesn’t deserve being beheaded in their cribs, being killed/raped/kidnapped from a youth concert, growing up parentless because parents loved them enough to lock them in safe rooms before being slaughtered themselves. The list of atrocities goes on.

            And on.

            Now attacks come from the north as well.

            Yes, we who know what the Bible says know God’s warned that until the end of time the Jewish people will suffer at the hands of her enemy. It’s a harsh realization. One we want to wish away. Yet what God says stands. Not because His Heart desires it, but because it’s a truth set into motion the moment Abraham impregnated Hagar, then Ishmael was born. Enmity between half-brothers on opposite ends of the spiritual spectrum.

            Last Friday the Muslim world proclaimed a day of worldwide jihad against infidels—Jews, believers in Jesus, anyone who does not bow to Allah.

            I’m no expert on end times or the Book of Revelation, but I can tell you, if you want to know where we are in the long range of things, keep your eyes on Israel! It’s key to grasping where we are on earth’s timeline and understanding what’s happening and going to happen in our very broken world.

            So, watch Israel! Read God’s Word!

            And fall on your knees!             

            The Jews are a resilient people. They will rise out of the ashes. They always do. It’s in their resolve (and in their national anthem too).

 

ISRAEL'S National Anthem - HATIKVAH with English and Hebrew lyrics ( Longer version ) - YouTube

—“Our hope is not yet lost.”—

 

            But let’s pray for these beloved of God—that even through these atrocities they will cling to the One Who is watching over them—Who never slumbers nor sleeps. Who roars at the enemy. Who weeps at the lives lost. Who is their Hope.

            Hope is never lost because true Hope is in the Lord God Messiah—Savior of all who will accept His Gift of salvation. This is for the Jews and non-Jews alike.

            So, watch Israel, hope in the God of Zion, and even pray for an enemy so cruel it seeks to devour a whole people. Read God’s Word, weep for the lost, and know that Hope is eternal. 

 

—Because He Lives in English and Hebrew—

BECAUSE HE LIVES (Hebrew and English!) LIVE at the Garden Tomb, Jerusalem Easter - YouTube

#Israel #innocentbloodshed #hope #Revelation #endtimes #Hatikvah #BecauseHeLives

Photo credit: Carolyn Burns

The Day "Paper" Met Wood

              Son, Nathan, graced us with a visit to help with jobs about the house we’d been unable to do. While we worked out back, we sent Min to the shed to get supplies for the next job.

            Moments later he ran out of the shed bent over, holding his face and rocking his whole body!

            “What’s wrong?” I yelled, getting up as fast as I could and heading in his direction.

            Nathan beat me to it, put an arm around Min, and helped lift his “little” brother’s head.

            Min still wasn’t speaking but wasn’t quite crying either, although he appeared in terrific pain in or around his eye. Nathan walked him to us, and I brought Min into the house to get an icepack.

            Min’s lip quivered as he applied the icepack to his injury. “I got stung in my eyeball!”

            I lifted the icepack to examine his eye and surmised a wasp stung Min’s eyelid, which must have impulsively blinked to protect him.

            “It was one of those big red paper wasps that we sprayed,” Min said, “but they didn’t all go away, and they are nasty and charge at us, and it aimed for my eyeball because they like black targets! I want to cry.”

            “Go ahead,” I said reapplying the icepack. “Pain like this certainly would make anyone cry.”

            Min let loose his tears.

            I knew an aspirin poultice would help but was leery of putting one that close to his eye. So, we exchanged the icepack for a bag of tiny veggies which would conform well around Min’s eye socket.

            He hates icepacks or frozen veggies on anything for any reason, but I told him taking it off wasn’t an option until I yelled “TIME!”

            Min headed to his room grumbling about keeping frozen veggies on his eyelid.

            I then looked out the window and saw Nathan winging a wooden 2x4 about the entrance of the shed.

            Brian had come in the house and joined me by the window. “What’s he up to?”

            “Craziness, I guess.” I shook my head. “What’s he hope to accomplish with a 2x4?”

            But Nathan, an Army Veteran and Bronze Star recipient, was at war with that red paper wasp! He swung that 2x4 and pounded the end against the shed floor, putting that squashed wasp out of commission forever!

            What first appeared to us parents as an insane act suddenly changed in our thinking to an example of brotherly love—something Nathan doesn’t express gently. He’s SO NOT LIKE THAT. He’s more the “take it like a man” type! But here he was making sure the red menace who wounded his little bro never did so again.

            Min survived this aerial attack with a badly swollen, reddened eyelid. He’s been quite the trooper actually. And we shared with him how Nathan went full-throttle when he saw that his little bro had been injured.

            After that, Nathan visited with Min in his room. Brother time.

            Although a wasp attack isn’t all out life-threatening combat, had it been, I think Nathan would’ve done whatever it took to make sure his little bro was taken care of.

            Min said afterward, “I’m glad Nathan’s my brother-in-law.”

            “Not in-law. Brother,” I corrected.

            “Even though I’m adopted and we’re not blood?”

            “Right,” I said. “I don’t think it even occurred to him how silly he looked swinging a 2x4 at a wasp. He was just mad you were hurt because he loves you.”

           When Nathan had to leave for home, Min came and hugged him. Really hugged! Min’s SO NOT LIKE THAT.

            Something changed this visit.

            A ‘swollen eye was open,” so to speak, and Min looks at his brother a bit differently now. Or his brother-in-law—or whoever he is!

            I’m reminded of Jesus Who comes to our defense when we hurt, even though we walk into enemy territory, and when we’ve been stung by sin. He’s SO LIKE THAT!

            How thankful I am for the Savior’s example—our “… Friend Who sticks closer than a brother.” Proverbs 18:24b (NKJV)

 

There’s not a friend like the lowly Jesus~No, not one! No, Not one!

None else could heal all our soul’s diseases~No, not one! No, not one!

(REFRAIN) Jesus knows all about our struggles, He will guide till the day is done;

There’s not a friend like the lowly Jesus~No, not one! No, not one!

 

No friend like Him is so high and holy~No, not one! No, not one!

And yet no friend is so meek and lowly~No, not one! No, not one!

(REFRAIN)

 

There’s not an hour that He is not near us~No, not one! No, not one!

No night so dark but His love can cheer us~No, not one! No, not one!

(REFRAIN)

 

Was e’er a gift like the Savior given? No, not one! No, not one!

Will he refuse us a home in heaven? No, not one! No, not one!

(REFRAIN) Jesus knows all about our struggle, He will guide till the day is done;

There’s not a friend like the lowly Jesus~No, not one! No, not one!

 

(from the hymn “No, Not One,” lyrics by Johnson Oatman, 1895, public domain)

#redpaperwasp #sting #brotherlylove #Jesus #adoption #2x4

 

*Photo credit: Robert & Barbara Kipfer (used with permission)

When Dad Didn't Get What He Wanted

             September 19^th, 1953. Dad helped Mom into their old jalopy. Then he popped into the driver’s seat, started the engine, shifted into drive, hit the gas pedal, and tore down the road. He was a man on a mission!

            You see, Mom was in labor.

            Four+ years earlier, Tom and Ruth welcomed their firstborn. A daughter—the apple of Dad’s eye. His song for her? “Daddy’s Little Girl.”*

            With their daughter being cared for, they were on their way to have a son, Thomas Archer Burns, Jr. After all, Dad’s married siblings all had either a son and a daughter or two sons, so Mom would certainly bring forth a boy-child.

            It only seemed right in this era: 1) Have a son to carry on the family name. 2) “Call it quits” after two children.

            Labor was longer this time for some reason (that’s another story), but eventually a nurse came with the long-awaited news.

            “Mr. Burns, congratulations! You have a daughter!”

            A what? Wait! This can’t be right. We already have one of those.

            Dad didn’t get what he wanted that day. Instead, he got me.

 

           So, what did he do? Much to Mom’s surprise, he went out and bought a brand-new Chevy. Hey, if Dad couldn’t get what he wanted from the delivery room, at least he could from the show room—something to drive in style as he toted around his female entourage!

            But that car turned out to be a lemon.

            And me? Did he get two lemons that day? Maybe he thought so … for a short time anyway. But …

            Dad was our provider and protector. I never once doubted that he begrudged his role. And many years later I’d hear this ’n’ that about how glad he was he had girls and not troublesome boys. He’d seen too many of those.

            I was browsing through my baby book several decades ago. There wasn’t much in it, but I did notice an entry in Dad’s handwriting. “Gave Sarah Ann her first N-M-A.”

            “What’s N-M-A stand for?” I asked Mom.

            She laughed. “Your dad never was a very good speller. He gave you your first enema!’

            That put us in stitches! Then Mom became somber. I’m not sure why she told me the next part, but she did.

            “Your dad didn’t have much to do with you when you came home from the hospital. I worried a lot about that. It wasn’t until you were about three months old when he held you and prepared your bath. Then I knew it would be okay.”

            Maybe that should have soured me and made me go semi-nuts, needing years of counseling. But it didn’t. Why? Because I never truly felt unloved or unwanted.

            In fact, my earliest recollections are ones where Dad sat me on his shoulders and carried me around the grocery store while I clung to him for life—my arms wrapped tightly around his forehead. And he had silly names for me like Lulu and Mary.

            It may have taken Dad a while to get use to the idea he’d never have a son, but he did love his daughters. I’d even venture to say he was proud of how we turned out.

            That Chevy was a lemon, but not me!

            We don’t always get what we think we want, but God knows what He’s doing and gives what’s best. Dad learned that, and my sister and I did too—perhaps from his example because our dad taught us to trust the One Who chooses best for us because of His great love.

            Maybe you were born into a home where you weren’t loved or valued. Some of you may have been abandoned. You may find it hard to grasp that you’re a gift, not a lemon at all. Guess what! God says this: “When my father and my mother forsake me, then the Lord will take me up.” Psalm 27:10

            … like Dad carried me on his shoulders or a shepherd, his lamb.

            So good news, you who may think you’re a “lemon!” You’re not! There’s God in His Heaven Who loves you with an everlasting love and made a way for you to inherit that everlasting extension of His Love.

            He sent Jesus, His treasured Son, to die on the cross for our sins, raised Him from the dead, and welcomed His resurrected Son back into Heaven to prepare an eternal Home for anyone who accepts Jesus as their Lord and Savior.

            There’s NO WAY Someone would do all that for you without loving you with all His Heart! You’re not a lemon. No way! No how! YOU are like the apple of God’s Eye!

            As for my dad and his Chevy? He got rid of that thing! But he didn’t get rid of me! So, happy birthday to me!

“Happy birthday to you! Happy birthday to you!

Happy birthday, ‘Lulu Mary!’ Happy birthday to you!”**

 

#happy birthday #1953Chevy #lemon #girldad #Psalm27:10 #valued #Godslove

 

Photo by Ryan Fincher, used with permission.

*Robert Harrison Burke, 1949.

**Now public domain.

The Teacher Who Made a Difference

            With the exception of kindergarten, up until the fifth grade my teachers failed to understand learning disabled students. Okay. I give them a pass in that, during the 1950s and ’60s, there wasn’t much “out there” about this topic.

            I was one of those kids who just didn’t learn like everyone else. If there was a sound in the room, I was off task immediately. I processed information slower than most other students. Oh, there were one or two others who the cruel kids called “retarded.” (I didn’t endure that until a few years later.) I couldn’t read well nor remember how to spell words, and I constantly mixed up the letters “B” and “D,” the words “was” and “saw”—things like that.

            In fourth grade I was tested by a speech teacher. I’m not sure why, but that’s who did the testing. I don’t know if this was initiated by my teacher, my parents, or both. Maybe they thought I had a hearing loss to go along with my severe nearsightedness. And I was told I would be repeating the fourth grade.

            I was totally dissolved with this news. My utter distress caused my teacher to send me on to fifth grade, ready or not. I wasn’t ready, but I only saw that in hindsight decades later.

            But then I was given a gift! Miss Oberlies! She was as beautiful a teacher as she was compassionate. And perceptive because, what other teachers missed, she caught onto. My encourager! My educational heroine! I did my best to earn her praise.

            I didn’t realize then, but Miss Oberlies used my strengths to overcome my weaknesses. She recognized mine were in music and art. I had school violin lessons, so that was taken care of. Thus, she pegged me for my art ability.

            Miss Oberlies may have grasped hold of this idea to help me from the apples I brought her. Yes, bringing the teacher an apple was still “a thing” then. I didn’t bring just any old apple. My apples were dressed in construction paper outfits fit for whatever season we were entering. Thus, my first fruity gift to her wore a Halloween costume.

            I also drew beautiful maps, ornately colored. I loved doing those!

            It wasn’t long after that, Miss Oberlies approached me. “Sarah Ann (what I was called then), the big bulletin board in the hallway needs something special for Thanksgiving. I think you would do a wonderful job. How about I ask the principal if you may do that?

            I was THRILLED! This wasn’t any old bulletin board like the smaller ones in our classroom. This was IT! I’d made the big time! There was a catch, though.

            Miss Oberlies continued. “You’ll need to try really hard to have your regular classroom work done to be able to do the hallway bulletin board. Do you think you can do that?

            “Sure!” I exclaimed, smiling ear-to-ear.

            I still stumbled through much of my work, and I still didn’t ace those grades, but what Miss Oberlies did was give me the encouragement to try and the gumption to give it all I had.

            Sometimes I stayed after school to finish (for other reasons too, which we won’t discuss here), but I earned the reward of doing that bulletin board! Some of my construction paper creations were even 3-D. Those Pilgrims and Indians (as we called them then) “popped!”

            My teacher didn’t cure my learning difficulties, even though she patiently worked with me to improve my reading, etc. But she didn’t degrade me publicly or privately as some other teachers had and would.

            A student who’s lifted up will likely do better (or at least try) than one who is shot down.

            Now is the time of year when students have entered classrooms. In the south, the school year’s already begun. In the north, you’re just getting started.

            Teachers, YOU make a difference! So do the rest of you who work in our schools, be they public or private. Bus drivers too! How you teach your students—and I don’t just mean the academics—through your demeanor and attitude toward them could make a life-changing difference in some.

            Miss Oberlies was my teacher such a long, long time ago. But I will never forget her. She saw potential in this awkward gal and pulled the positive from me instead of “slapping” me with the negative. I only wish I could thank her one more time.

            Did you have a teacher who made a difference in your life? If so, you, too, were given a gift. If those teachers are still living, maybe you could jot them a note. They’ll be grateful to know they impacted your life.

            For those who may be wondering how to determine your student’s/child’s strengths, may I introduce you to Dr. Kathy Koch’s book, 8 Great Smarts? Dr. Kathy shows ways to use those smarts (every child has one or more) to draw out the best in your students/children.

            Here’s the link to a neat, encouraging kids’ song, I Am a Promise by William & Gloria Gaither:

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=DQnJ-mxzZGI

 

#learningdisability #teachers #8greatsmarts #learningstyles #drkathykochphd

Watermelon Seeds & the Dead Sea Scrolls: A Day in the Life of Min

             Life as parents of a special needs adult is far from boring. Conversations with Min are as broad, fractured, interesting, confusing as any could be. Example: the day he went from talking about watermelon seeds to the Dead Sea Scrolls in the same minute. You laugh? We did too, but this is just a typical day in the life of Min.

            In less than a month you’ll have the opportunity to peek more into the life of Min—from his perspective (ours also). You see, in January of 2021 Min approached his dad and I and said, “I want to write my story. Will you help me?” We didn’t start right then because we weren’t actually sure Min comprehended what a mammoth task this would be. But, come that mid-July we began what birthed his memoir…

A Home for Min Soo: Putting Together the Pieces of My Life

            I don’t know if I’ve ever taken on a rougher writing challenge than this. I became Min’s “secretary” and served as his scribe as well. Some days were pure torture. But then there’d be gems he’d drop along the way that made his memoir shine.

            I’ll never forget the day he wanted to quit. I urged him to give it at least five more minutes. He grudgingly did, yet it was in those minutes Min unknowingly unleashed the purpose of his book…

            … and his life. Wow. It stymied me!

            I verbally committed to giving Min one year to get down the rough draft. It took an additional year+ to do all the edits and every other task needed to see Min’s dream come true—his memoir in print.

            We had wonderful support from professionals who helped, all because of their love of Min. And there’s no way the “secretary” could have brought the manuscript to completion without Brian, Min’s dad and “techno support.” We labelled us all TEAM MIN!

            When Brian and I did several edits together, we found ourselves in awe and wonder of how Min, a developmentally disabled individual with an I.Q. below 70, could’ve come out with the words and thoughts he did. Oh, there are many episodes of hilarity within the pages, but there are also solemn, deep moments that still move us to tears, even after reading the whole book countless times.

            We believe the Holy Spirit aided Min in this writing. There’s just no other explanation for it. God’s Hand was on this broken fella as he poured out his joys and sorrows from a soul and spirit that are not disabled. (And Brian and I added backstory.)

            So, yes, this is a shameless promotional blog post, to be honest, as we invite you to look for Min’s memoir. Coming soon in paperback, e-book, and audiobook forms! Maybe we’re a little biased, but we—along with Min’s pre-readers—agree that his story may move you. Change you.

            Thank you for letting us share our son with you through A Home for Min Soo: Putting Together the Pieces of My Life. Min used his birthname as author, so you’ll find this title authored by Kim, Min Soo. He hopes one day his story reaches South Korea, his homeland, and touches lives there as well.

            It seems fitting to share Min’s favorite hymn with you this time—

“When peace like a river attendeth my way, when sorrows like sea billows roll;

Whatever my lot, Thou hast taught me to say, ‘It is well, it is well with my soul.’

 

Though Satan should buffet, though trials should come, let this blest assurance control:

That Christ has regarded my helpless estate, and has shed His Own Blood for my soul.

 

My sin, oh, the bliss of this glorious thought! My sin, not in part, but the whole,

Is nailed to the cross, and I bear it no more; Praise the Lord, praise the Lord, O my soul!

 

O Lord, haste the day when my faith shall be sight, the clouds be rolled back as a scroll;

The trump shall resound and the Lord shall descend; even so, it is well with my soul.

 

REFRAIN: It is well—with my soul. It is well, it is well with my soul.”

 

(from the hymn “It Is Well with My Soul” by Horatio Gates Spafford, 1873, public domain)

#AHomeforMinSoo #memoir #SouthKorea #KimMinSoo #GodsHand #HolySpirit #developmentaldisability

 

8/21/23: A Home for Min Soo—Putting Together the Pieces of My Life is now available for pre-order through Walmart, Amazon, Barnes & Noble, and other online retailers who sell books. The audiobook version will be available soon.