I was born in 1973 in Ha Tien, a small Cambodian-majority village nestled in the southern edge of Vietnam, near the Cambodian border. My birth came at a tragic intersection of history: the Vietnam War was grinding into its final, bloody chapters, while just across the border, the Khmer Rouge was rising to power—unleashing what the world would later call the Killing Fields.

My earliest memories were not of toys or playgrounds, but of mango trees, muddy rice paddies, and climbing coconut palms for water. My mother, a resilient woman with hands worn from labor, would bake bread each day and sell it on dusty, unpaved roads to passing travelers. My father, ever resourceful, worked as a delivery driver—navigating broken roads on a motorcycle, ferrying goods between villages scarred by war.

By the late 1970s, our lives were a daily gamble between survival and annihilation. Airstrikes, guerrilla ambushes, and the sudden thunder of artillery were part of the backdrop.

It was not uncommon for families like ours to huddle in muddy ditches for cover, praying the earth would shield us from the sharp shrapnel above.

“Though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil; for You are with me.” —Psalm 23:4

One memory still burns vividly in my mind—more vivid than any nightmare. My sister had taken me on her bicycle to a nearby barn shed, where we were supposed to grind rice we had just picked. When we got there, the shed was locked. We turned back, not even fifty yards down the path on our way home, a missile—stray or intended, I will never know—screamed through the sky and obliterated the barn shed. Flames, smoke, splintered wood… all of it vanished in seconds.

Had the door been unlocked, I wouldn’t be here to tell you this story. That shed could have been our grave. But God had other plans.

By 1979, Vietnam had invaded Cambodia to oust the Khmer Rouge, but this brought little peace. Instead, new waves of conflict, famine, and despair followed. My father made the impossible decision: we would escape. Just the two of us. Leaving behind the only home we knew, and even more painful—my mother and siblings.

Escaping Vietnam by sea had become a desperate lifeline for hundreds of thousands during the 1970s and early ’80s. They were called the “boat people”—refugees who braved the South China Sea in search of freedom. Yet for every boat that made it to safety, it’s said ten others were lost to storms, pirates, or capsized under the weight of too many passengers.

Our first attempt failed. News reached us that brutal soldiers were lying in wait at a known launch point. So we turned back. A month later, we tried again. This time, my father brought my sister, my aunt, and her young brother. My mother and younger brother remained behind. We had no money to pay for passage, but because my father had once served in the South Vietnamese army during the 1960s, he and his family were offered a spot—if he agreed to captain the boat.

The night we left was dark and quiet—too quiet. At the docks, over 60 people were desperate to flee, though the boat could only safely hold 40. Turning people away was like handing them a death sentence: if not captured or shot, they’d likely be blown apart by the landmines America had once scattered across Southeast Asia to halt the Viet Cong. We took on as many as we could.

As our twin-engine boat slipped away into the blackness of the sea, a violent storm rolled in. Waves thrashed us like rag dolls. To stay afloat, we had to throw overboard everything that wasn’t a human life—rice, flour, even our water. Sharks began circling our vessel in the chaos, their fins slicing through the waves, reminding us how fragile we were in that vast, cruel ocean.

When the storm passed, hunger set in. A Thai fishing boat approached after we begged for help. Instead of rescuing us, they gave us a little food and then robbed us of the few possessions we carried. They left us stranded, drifting without hope. Days later, land appeared on the horizon—an island. We made landfall, but the islanders met us with suspicion.

They fed us, yes, but demanded we leave behind a young woman in exchange for supplies.

My father, refusing such a moral price, negotiated instead with the engine from our boat. They agreed.

Now with only one engine and barely enough fuel, we set out again, unsure how far Thailand was—or if we’d even survive another day. Then, out of the shimmering horizon, a Thai military boat appeared. We were rescued and brought to a refugee camp along with thousands of others.

That camp was both sanctuary and suffering. Fights broke out over food. There was no clean water, no electricity, no proper sanitation.

It was a city of the forgotten—displaced souls from Vietnam, Cambodia, and Laos.

One day while playing, I sliced open my shin on a boat rotor—four inches across. I nearly bled to death. But I lived.

“He heals the brokenhearted and binds up their wounds.” —Psalm 147:3

Eight months passed. Then one morning, the camp director called for my father.

A Presbyterian church in Southfield, Michigan, wanted to sponsor a refugee family. They had chosen us. We knew nothing of Christianity or the people behind this act of grace, but hope had finally reached out its hand.

As we waited for paperwork to process, I was bitten by an insect that left me gravely ill. Our departure was nearly canceled. But God had other plans. After treatment and a short delay, we boarded a plane bound for America.

We landed in Michigan—cold, unfamiliar, yet full of promise. My father, who once captained boats across treacherous waters and fought for his homeland, took a job washing dishes at Denny’s. He did it with pride. Because here, in this new world, he could provide for his children without fear of bombs, pirates, or secret police.

“For I know the plans I have for you,” declares the Lord, “plans to prosper you and not to harm you, plans to give you a future and a hope.” —Jeremiah 29:11

From muddy rice fields in Ha Tien… to mud pits where we hid from gunfire… to the mud-floored refugee camps in Thailand… to the snowy sidewalks of Michigan—God has led me on an incredible journey.

The value of what we do as a church — living to give — has saved and changed many lives. What we do in the name of Jesus has a far-reaching impact that people don’t realize. My own life is evidence of this!