Every day that I am making my bed, a persecuted Christian in the North Korean gulag is getting up off his rat-infested floor. Every morning that I am eating my savory yogurt with fresh fruit, he is headed out to the logging site or mine or quarry or factory on an empty stomach. Every morning that I sing to the Lord in the beautiful sycamore-tree lined cemetery, she is working her 13- to 15-hour day and forced to sing patriotic songs while doing it or incur a beating. Every noon when I stop for a sandwich, he gets his only food allotment of the day, a few ounces of corn. When I feel a chill and reach for my sweater, she is put outside for the freeze treatment.
I don’t know if most Christians pray for the martyrs, but I’ll bet they pray for us. Why wouldn’t they? They see things more clearly, their vision undulled by entertainment and comfort.
Andree Seu
I don’t know if most Christians pray for the martyrs, but I’ll bet they pray for us. Why wouldn’t they? They see things more clearly, their vision undulled by entertainment and comfort.
Andree Seu
