My name is Pastor Kim Yong Su and I am a 54 yearear-old man who was born in a small village called Hueryong in the North Hamyong province of North Korea and I am one of the fervent and resilient Christians in the country.

On January 8th, 2022, I was unjustly sentenced to death by firing squad by the North Korean government for reading the Bible in public.

They claim I was a nuisance to the citizens of the country and I must be killed.

But a few seconds to my execution, Jesus, the King of Kings, showed forth in a miraculous way for me.

This is my testimony. I was born in the winter of 1970 during one of the coldest seasons my mother could remember.

My father was a farmer who worked the frozen fields outside our village. And my mother stayed home to care for me and my two older sisters.

We lived in a small mud brick house with a thatched roof that leaked whenever the spring rains came.

Life in North Korea was hard for everyone. But for families like mine, it was a daily struggle just to survive.

We ate whatever we could find. Rice when we were lucky, corn, porridge when we were not, and sometimes nothing at all when the government took our harvest and left us with empty hands.

My father worked from before sunrise until after sunset. And still we never had enough.

I remember watching him come home at night with his back bent from exhaustion and his hands cracked and bleeding from the cold.

He never complained. He just washed his hands in the basin by the door and sat down to share whatever small meal my mother had prepared.

My childhood was shaped by fear and silence. In North Korea, you learned very early that certain words could get your entire family killed.

You did not speak against the government. You did not question the teachings of the great leader.

And you certainly did not mention God or religion or anything that suggested there was a power higher than the state.

The government taught us that Kiml Sun was our eternal father and that we owed him everything, including our lives.

His portrait hung in every home, in every classroom, and every public building. We bowed to it every morning and thanked him for our food, even when there was no food to thank him for.

Religion was considered a poison from the West, and anyone caught practicing Christianity or any other faith faced immediate arrest and punishment.

The lucky ones were sent to labor camps. The unlucky ones simply disappeared and were never seen again.

I first heard about Jesus when I was 17 years old. It happened during the great famine of the 1990s when millions of North Koreans starved to death and the country fell into chaos.

My father had died 2 years earlier from a sickness that could have been easily treated if we had medicine.

My oldest sister had fled to China hoping to find food and we never heard from her again.

My mother, my remaining sister, and I were slowly starving in our crumbling house, eating grass and tree bark just to stay alive.

One night, a woman came to our village. She was thin and weak like everyone else.

But there was something different in her eyes, a light that did not make sense given our circumstances.

She went from house to house quietly offering small bags of rice to families who were desperate.

When she came to our house, my mother wept at the sight of the food.

But then the woman did something strange. Before she left, she pressed a small piece of paper into my hand and whispered words I will never forget.

She said that Jesus loved me and that he had sent her to bring us hope.

The paper she gave me contained words from something called the Gospel of John. I had never seen such words before.

They spoke of light and life and a love that conquered death. I did not understand most of it, but something stirred deep inside my heart as I read those words by candlelight after my mother and sister had fallen asleep.

It was like a seed being planted in dry soil, waiting for rain that might never come.

I hid that paper under a loose board in the floor and took it out every night to read it again and again.

The woman never returned to our village, and I never learned her name. But she had started something inside me that could not be stopped.

Over the following months, I began searching quietly for others who might know about this Jesus.

It was dangerous work. One wrong word to the wrong person could mean death for me and my entire family.

But the hunger in my soul had become stronger than the hunger in my stomach.

When I was 23 years old, I finally found what I was looking for. Through a network of whispers and secret signals, I was connected to an underground group of believers who met in hidden locations throughout North Hamong Province.

There were only seven of us at first. A farmer and his wife, a factory worker, a former soldier who had lost his leg in an accident, a young widow with two small children, and me.

We met in basements and abandoned buildings and sometimes in the forest outside the city of Chong Jin.

We had only one Bible among us, and it was old and falling apart with pages missing and words faded from years of handling.

But to us, it was more precious than gold. We would gather in darkness and read by the light of a single candle.

We would sing hymns so softly that our voices were barely louder than breathing. And we would pray for hours asking God to protect us and strengthen us and use us to spread his love in a land that had forgotten what love meant.

The years passed slowly and our small group of seven believers grew into something I never expected.

By the time I was 35 years old, we had become a network of nearly 40 faithful followers scattered across the province.

We called ourselves the hidden flock and I had become their shepherd without ever planning to take on such a role.

It happened naturally as the others looked to me for guidance and teaching. I had memorized large portions of scripture by then because carrying a physical Bible was too dangerous.

The words lived inside my heart and I would recite them during our secret gatherings while the others listened with hungry souls.

We met in different locations each week. Sometimes in the basement of an abandoned factory on the outskirts of Chong Jin.

Sometimes in a cave near the Tombman River where the sound of rushing water covered our voices.

Sometimes in the back room of a believer’s home while lookouts watched the streets for any sign of the boouibu.

The secret police who hunted people like us. Our worship services were unlike anything you might imagine in the free world.

We could not sing loudly or clap our hands or raise our voices in praise.

Every sound had to be controlled and measured because a single overheard word could mean death for all of us.

We would gather in complete darkness at first, waiting until everyone had arrived before lighting a single candle that cast dancing shadows on the walls around us.

The person hosting the meeting would cover the windows with thick blankets to prevent any light from escaping.

We would sit in a tight circle on the floor with our knees touching so we could hear each other’s whispers.

And then we would worship. The hymns we sang were so quiet they sounded like prayers.

Our voices blended together in a soft harmony that filled the room with a presence I can only describe as holy.

In those moments, the fear and danger outside seemed to fade away, and we felt the peace of God surrounding us like a warm embrace.

The believers in our group came from all walks of life. And each one had a story that would break your heart.

There was brother Choi Sun-Ho, a former mathematics teacher who had been expelled from his position after refusing to teach children that Kim Jong-il was a god.

He now worked as a street sweeper, invisible to the authorities. But his brilliant mind continued to serve the kingdom as he helped new believers understand the deeper truths of scripture.

There was Sister Park Mi Young, a nurse at the provincial hospital who risked her life every day by sharing the gospel with dying patients.

She would whisper about Jesus to those who had only hours left, offering them hope of eternal life in their final moments.

There was old grandfather Lee Dongchu who had been a believer since before the Korean War and had survived three different purges that killed most of the Christians in the country.

His faith was like a mountain that could not be moved and his prayers carried an authority that made even the youngest believers feel courageous.

Among all these precious souls, one relationship became especially important to me. Her name was Sister Yun Hay Jin and she had joined our fellowship 3 years after I became the leader.

She was a widow whose husband had died in a mining accident, leaving her alone with a young son named Junho.

The first time she came to our gathering, she was trembling with fear, brought by another believer who had heard her crying out to a god she did not yet know.

She told us that she had found a torn page from a Bible blowing in the wind near the market and the words on that page had pierced her heart.

She wanted to know more about this Jesus who promised rest to those who were weary and burdened.

Over the following months, I taught her everything I knew about the faith. I watched her grow from a frightened widow into a woman of tremendous courage and devotion.

And somewhere along the way, though I tried to fight it because romance seemed foolish in our dangerous circumstances, I fell deeply in love with her.

We married in a secret ceremony conducted in the basement of a believer’s home with only 12 witnesses present.

There was no official registration with the government because that would have required explanations we could not give.

In the eyes of the state, we were not husband and wife, but in the eyes of God and our community of faith, we were joined together as one flesh.

P Jin and her son Jun Ho moved into my small apartment in Chong Jin, and we began building a life together in the shadows.

She became my partner in ministry, helping me organize gatherings and care for believers who were sick or struggling.

Junho, who was 8 years old when I became his stepfather, grew into a young man of remarkable faith.

By the time he was 15, he was helping us smuggle Bibles across the border from China, risking his life with a courage that amazed and terrified me in equal measure.

Our home became a sanctuary for believers who needed shelter, and our table became a place where the hungry were fed both physically and spiritually.

The constant danger we lived under created a bond among our fellowship that I have never experienced anywhere else.

We were not just a church. We were a family bound together by blood that was thicker than the blood of birth.

When one believer was arrested, we all felt the chains around our own wrists. When one believer’s child went hungry, we all shared whatever food we had.

When one believer died, we all mourned as if we had lost our own mother or father.

The government tried to make us into isolated individuals who trusted no one and loved nothing except the state.

But Jesus had given us something the government could never take away. He had given us each other.

And in that love, we found the strength to keep believing even when everything around us screamed that we should give up.

We had close calls that still wake me up at night with cold sweat on my skin.

Once the secret police raided a building just minutes after we had finished a gathering and escaped through a back window.

Another time a believer was arrested and we spent three agonizing weeks waiting to see if he would break under torture and reveal our names.

He never did. He died in custody without speaking a single word against us. As the years went on, the burden in my heart grew heavier and heavier.

I looked at the people of North Korea and saw millions of souls living in darkness without any knowledge of the light that could save them.

Our underground church was growing, but it was still just a tiny candle in an ocean of blackness.

I began to feel that God was calling me to do something more, something dangerous, something that would either shake the foundations of this oppressed nation or cost me everything I had.

The whisper started quietly at first. Just a gentle nudge during my prayer times that suggested there was more I was supposed to do, but over the months that whisper grew louder until it became a roar I could no longer ignore.

I shared my burden with Hia Jyn one night as we lay in bed listening to the wind howling outside our window.

I told her that I felt God was calling me to step out of the shadows and proclaim his word publicly.

I told her that I wanted to stand in a place where people could see me and hear me and read from the Bible openly for the first time in their lives.

She was silent for a long time and I could feel her body trembling against mine.

When she finally spoke, her voice was steady, but I could hear the tears behind her words.

She said she had known this day would come and that she would stand beside me no matter what the cost.

The morning I chose for my public witness was March 15th, 2018. It was a cold day with gray clouds hanging low over the city of Chong Jin like a heavy blanket.

I had selected the central market square because it was the busiest place in the city where hundreds of people gathered every day to buy and sell goods.

I woke up before dawn that morning and spent 2 hours on my knees in prayer asking God to give me the strength to do what I was about to do.

Hayagin knelt beside me the entire time, her hand gripping mine so tightly that I could feel her fingernails digging into my skin.

She did not try to stop me. She had accepted my calling, even though she knew what it would likely cost us.

When I finally stood up, my legs were shaking, but my heart was filled with a piece that made no sense given what I was about to face.

I kissed her forehead and held her face in my hands, memorizing every detail because I did not know if I would ever see her again.

I dressed in my cleanest clothes and tucked the warm Bible inside my jacket close to my chest.

This Bible had been smuggled across the Chinese border 15 years ago and had passed through the hands of dozens of believers before reaching me.

Its pages were soft and thin from countless readings, and some of the words had faded so badly they were almost impossible to read.

But it was the word of God, and I would use it to speak truth to a nation that had been fed lies for generations.

I left my apartment at exactly 7:00 in the morning while the streets were still quiet and the vendors were just beginning to set up their stalls in the market.

I walked slowly through the familiar streets, taking in the sights and sounds of the city I had lived in for so many years.

The crumbling buildings with their peeling paint. The propaganda posters showing our supreme leader smiling benevolently down at his people.

The thin faces of my fellow citizens shuffling along with empty eyes and hollow cheeks.

These were the people Jesus had called me to reach, and today I would give them something they had never received before.

The market square was beginning to fill with people by the time I arrived. Vendors called out their prices while customers haggled for better deals.

Children ran between the stalls playing games while their mothers shopped for vegetables and rice.

Soldiers stood at the corners of the square watching the crowd with bored expressions on their faces.

I found a spot near the center of the square where a low concrete platform stood.

It was used for official announcements and propaganda speeches, but today it would serve a different purpose.

I climbed onto the platform and stood there for a moment, feeling the eyes of nearby vendors turning toward me with curiosity.

My heart was pounding so hard I could hear the blood rushing in my ears.

My hands were trembling as I reached inside my jacket and pulled out the Bible.

The worn leather cover felt warm against my fingers and I clutched it like a lifeline.

I opened my mouth and began to speak in a voice that started weak but grew stronger with each word.

I told them my name was Pastor Kim Yong Su and that I had come to share words of hope and life with them.

I told them about a God who loved them more than they could imagine. A God who saw their suffering and heard their cries and wanted to set them free.

I opened the Bible to the Gospel of John and began to read aloud the words that had first pierced my own heart so many years ago.

In the beginning was the word and the word was with God and the word was God.

He was with God in the beginning. Through him all things were made and without him nothing was made that has been made.

In him was life and that life was the light of all mankind. The light shines in the darkness, and the darkness has not overcome it.

My voice rang out across the square, and people began to stop what they were doing.

Vendors froze with goods in their hands. Customers turned away from their bargaining. Children stopped running and stared at the strange man standing on the platform holding a forbidden book.

I continued reading, moving to the words of Jesus himself. For God so loved the world that he gave his one and only son that whoever believes in him shall not perish but have eternal life.

I explained that this son was named Jesus and that he had died on a cross to pay the price for our sins.

I told them that he had risen from the dead and was alive today, offering forgiveness and hope to anyone who would receive him.

Some people in the crowd began to weep. Others looked around nervously, afraid to be seen listening to such dangerous words.

But most of them simply stood frozen, their faces showing a mixture of confusion and hunger.

They had never heard anything like this before. They had been told their entire lives that there was no God and that their only hope was in the state.

But something in my words was reaching past the lies and touching a deeper place in their souls.

For three glorious minutes, I preached the gospel to the people of Chong Jin. And those three minutes were worth everything that came after.

The soldiers reached me before I could finish the passage I was reading. I saw them pushing through the crowd with their rifles raised and their faces twisted with anger.

The first one grabbed me by the collar and threw me off the platform onto the hard concrete ground.

The Bible flew from my hands and landed several feet away, its pages scattering in the cold wind.

I tried to reach for it, but a boot came down hard on my outstretched hand, crushing my fingers against the ground.

The pain shot through my arm like fire, but I did not cry out. I had expected this.

I had prepared for this. And I knew that my suffering would not be in vain.

More soldiers arrived and they began beating me with their fists and the butts of their rifles.

I felt my ribs crack under the blows. I felt blood pouring from a gash on my forehead and filling my eyes with red.

I heard the screams of the crowd as people scattered in fear, running away from the scene as fast as their legs could carry them.

They dragged me through the streets like an animal with my arms twisted behind my back and my face scraping against the rough pavement.

People watched from doorways and windows, but no one dared to help me. I did not blame them.

They knew that anyone who showed sympathy to a criminal like me would share my fate.

I was taken to the local security office where the real interrogation began. They threw me into a small concrete room with no windows and a single light bulb hanging from the ceiling.

The light was so bright it hurt my eyes after the darkness of the streets.

Three officers stood over me, their faces filled with hatred and disgust. They wanted to know who else was involved in my crime.

They wanted names and locations and details about the underground church. They used their fists and their boots and metal rods to try to beat the information out of me.

The pain was beyond anything I had ever experienced. Every part of my body screamed for relief.

But I kept my mouth shut. I would not betray my brothers and sisters. I would die before I let a single name pass through my lips.

The interrogation lasted for 3 days without stopping. They would beat me until I lost consciousness, throw cold water on my face to wake me up, and then begin beating me again.

They denied me food and water and sleep. They threatened to arrest my wife and stepson and subject them to the same treatment.

They told me that my entire underground church had already been discovered and that everyone was being rounded up as we spoke.

They showed me photographs of believers I recognized, claiming they had been arrested and executed.

I did not know if they were telling the truth or lying to break my spirit.

All I could do was pray silently in my heart and trust that God was protecting his people.

On the third day, they finally stopped the interrogation and told me that my fate had been decided.

I had been found guilty of crimes against the state, including spreading superstition, possessing illegal religious materials, and attempting to undermine the socialist system.

The sentence was death by firing squad. I would be executed at dawn the following morning at the military training ground outside the city.

They threw me into a holding cell and left me alone in the darkness to wait for the bullets that would end my life.

The holding cell was the smallest space I had ever been confined in. It measured no more than 2 m by 2 m with walls of rough concrete that scraped my skin whenever I moved.

There was no bed and no blanket and no toilet. Just a metal bucket in the corner that had not been emptied in days and filled the air with a smell that made my stomach turn.

The floor was cold and damp, and I could feel moisture seeping through my torn clothes as I lay curled on my side.

The only light came from a tiny gap under the steel door, where a faint glow from the corridor slipped through like a dying whisper.

My body was broken from the three days of torture. My ribs were cracked, and every breath sent sharp waves of pain through my chest.

My left eye was swollen completely shut and my right eye could barely open through the dried blood that crusted my face.

My fingers were bent at unnatural angles from where the soldiers had stomped on them.

But the physical pain was nothing compared to the anguish in my soul. I thought about Haya Jin and wondered if she was safe or if they had already arrested her as they threatened.

I thought about Jun Hoe and prayed that he had escaped across the border to China where some of our contacts could protect him.

I thought about the 40 believers in our fellowship and hoped that my arrest had not led the secret police to their doors.

The weight of responsibility pressed down on me heavier than the concrete ceiling above my head.

Had I made a terrible mistake by reading the Bible publicly? Had my desire to proclaim the gospel openly brought destruction upon everyone I loved.

The doubts crawled through my mind like insects, abiding at my faith and trying to poison my trust in God.

I had been so certain that morning when I stood on the platform in the market square.

I had felt the presence of the Holy Spirit filling me with courage and power.

But now in this dark cell with death waiting for me at sunrise, I felt more alone than I had ever felt in my entire life.

The hours passed slowly in the darkness with nothing to mark the time except the changing of the guards outside my door.

I heard their footsteps pacing back and forth and their muffled voices speaking in tones I could not understand.

Occasionally, I heard screams from somewhere else in the building. Other prisoners being interrogated or tortured or simply crying out in despair.

Each scream reminded me of what I had endured and what I would soon escape through death.

Part of me almost welcomed the thought of the firing squad. At least the bullets would be quick.

At least the pain would finally end. But another part of me clung desperately to life and to the hope that somehow God would intervene.

I tried to pray, but the words would not come. My lips moved in the darkness, but my heart felt empty and dry like a well that had run out of water.

I had spent my whole life telling others to trust in Jesus during their darkest moments.

Now I was facing my own darkest moment, and I could not find the faith I had preached so confidently to others.

Sometime in the middle of the night, I gave up trying to pray with words and simply began to weep.

The tears poured from my swollen eyes and mixed with the blood and dirt on my face.

I wept for my wife and my stepson. I wept for my brothers and sisters in the faith.

I wept for the people of North Korea who were trapped in darkness without hope.

And I wept for myself because I was terrified of dying and ashamed of being terrified.

I had always imagined that if I faced martyrdom, I would be brave and peaceful like the saints I had read about in scripture.

But I was not brave. I was a broken man lying on a cold floor, crying like a child and begging God not to let me die.

The honesty of my desperation stripped away every pretense I had ever worn. I was not a mighty man of faith.

I was just a sinner who needed a savior. And in that moment of complete brokenness, I whispered the most honest prayer of my life.

I said, “Jesus, if you are real, please come to me now because I cannot do this alone.”

What happened next is something I still struggle to describe with human words. The darkness in my cell did not gradually lighten like a sunrise.

It was sudden and complete, like someone had flipped a switch and flooded the room with pure light.

But this was not the harsh light of the interrogation room that had hurt my eyes.

This light was warm and gentle, and it seemed to come from everywhere at once.

I sat up slowly, ignoring the screaming pain in my ribs, and looked around the cell, trying to understand what was happening.

The concrete walls were still there, but they seemed to glow with a soft radiance that made them look almost beautiful.

The smell of the bucket in the corner was gone, replaced by a fragrance I can only describe as clean and sweet, like flowers blooming after rain.

And then I saw him. He was standing in the corner of the cell where the shadows had been darkest just moments before.

A figure dressed in white robes that shone with a brightness that should have blinded me, but instead filled me with peace.

I knew immediately who he was. Not because I had ever seen a picture of him that looked like this.

Not because he matched any image I had formed in my mind during years of prayer and scripture reading.

I knew him because my spirit recognized him and the way a child recognizes their father’s voice in a crowd.

This was Jesus. The same Jesus I had preached about in secret gatherings. The same Jesus whose words I had read aloud in the market square.

The same Jesus I had cried out to just moments before in my desperation. He was here in my cell, standing before me with eyes that held more love than I had ever seen in any human face.

I tried to fall on my knees before him, but my broken body would not cooperate.

I could only sit there on the cold floor, staring up at him with tears streaming down my face.

He smiled at me, and the warmth of that smile drove away every trace of fear and pain and doubt that had been tormenting me through the long night.

He spoke my name, and his voice was like music and thunder combined. It filled the tiny cell, and yet it was also intimate, like a whisper meant only for my ears.

Young Sue, my faithful servant, I have heard your prayers, and I have seen your tears.

I have watched you from the moment that woman placed my word in your hands as a young man.

I have walked beside you through every secret gathering and every dangerous journey. I have been with you in the interrogation room and I am with you now in this cell.

Do not be afraid of those who can kill the body but cannot kill the soul.

I wanted to respond but my voice had abandoned me completely. All I could do was weep and stare at his beautiful face.

He stepped closer to me and I noticed that his feet did not quite touch the floor.

He seemed to hover just above the damp concrete like the physical world could not contain him.

He reached out his hand and I saw the scar on his wrist where the nail had pierced his flesh 2,000 years ago on a Roman cross.

He touched my forehead with his scarred hand and instantly a warmth flooded through my entire body.

The pain in my ribs vanished. The throbbing in my swollen eye disappeared. The broken fingers on my hand straightened and healed.

I gasped as I felt strength returning to my limbs and clarity returning to my mind.

But the physical healing was nothing compared to what happened inside my heart. Every doubt I had ever harbored about God’s love and faithfulness melted away like snow in summer.

Every fear about death and suffering lost its power over me. I was filled with a peace so deep and so complete that I felt I could face a thousand firing squads without flinching.

Jesus spoke again and this time his words carried a weight of authority that made the very walls of the cell seemed to tremble.

Tomorrow you will stand before the rifles of your enemies, but I will be with you.

What they intend for evil, I will turn from my glory. Watch and see what I will do.

For I am the resurrection and the life, and nothing is impossible for those who believe.

He began to show me things that were going to happen. Visions appeared before my eyes as clear as if I were watching them unfold in real time.

I saw myself standing in the execution yard with soldiers raising their weapons. I saw the commander giving the order to fire.

But then I saw something else. Something so extraordinary that my mind could barely comprehend it.

I saw heaven reaching down to touch the earth. I saw chains breaking and hearts transforming and darkness fleeing before a light that could not be stopped.

The visions ended as suddenly as they had begun, and I found myself alone in the cell once more.

The supernatural light had faded and the darkness had returned. But I was not the same man who had been weeping on the floor just minutes before.

I was filled with a holy fire that burned away every trace of fear. I knew what was coming at dawn.

And for the first time since my arrest, I was ready to face it. I lay down on the cold floor and fell into the most peaceful sleep of my entire life.

The sound of heavy boots echoing in the corridor woke me from my sleep. I opened my eyes and realized that both of them were working perfectly now.

The swelling was gone and I could see clearly in the dim light that filtered under the cell door.

I sat up slowly and felt no pain in my ribs. I looked at my hands and saw that my fingers were straight and strong.

The healing I had experienced during the night was not a dream. It was real and my body was whole again.

The cell door swung open with a loud clang and two soldiers stepped inside with their rifles pointed at my chest.

They ordered me to stand up and put my hands behind my back. I obeyed without resistance, rising to my feet with a calm that seemed to confuse them.

They had expected to find a broken and terrified prisoner cowering in the corner. Instead, they found a man standing tall with peace in his eyes and a slight smile on his lips.

One of the soldiers muttered something to the other, and I caught the word crazy in his voice.

They led me out of the cell and down a long corridor lined with other steel doors.

I could hear moaning and weeping from behind some of those doors. And my heart achd for the prisoners trapped inside.

But I also felt a strange certainty that my story was not just about my own salvation.

Something bigger was happening. And I was just one small part of a plan that stretched far beyond my understanding.

We emerged from the building into the cold morning air. And I took a deep breath, filling my lungs with the freshness of a world I thought I would never see again.

The sun had not yet risen, but the eastern sky was beginning to lighten with shades of pink and orange.

It was beautiful, and I thanked God silently for allowing me to witness one more sunrise.

A military truck was waiting in the courtyard with its engine running and exhaust fumes rising into the chilly air.

The soldiers pushed me into the back of the truck where three other guards sat with expressionless faces and loaded weapons resting on their knees.

The drive to the execution ground took about 30 minutes along bumpy roads that wound through the outskirts of the city and into the barren countryside.

I watched the scenery pass through a gap in the canvas covering of the truck.

Small villages with smoke rising from chimneys. Farmers already working in frozen fields despite the early hour.

Children walking along the roadside carrying bundles of firewood on their backs. These were my people.

These were the souls I had given my life to serve. And even though I was being driven to my death, I felt no regret for the choice I had made.

The word of God had been spoken publicly in the city of Chong Jin. Seeds had been planted in hearts that had never heard the gospel before.

Whatever happened to me, those seeds would remain and someday they would bear fruit. The truck finally stopped and the soldiers ordered me to climb out.

My feet landed on hard frozen ground and I looked around at the place where I was supposed to die.

The execution ground was a flat open area surrounded by low hills on three sides.

A concrete wall about 3 m high stood at the far end, pockm marked with bullet holes from previous executions.

Dark stains on the ground in front of the wall told the story of the many lives that had ended in this terrible place.

A row of wooden posts stood before the wall, and I understood that prisoners were tied to these posts before being shot.

About 50 soldiers were assembled in formation facing the wall. They stood in neat rows with rifles at their sides and breath rising from their mouths in the cold air.

Several officers stood apart from the regular soldiers, their uniforms decorated with medals and insignia that indicated their high rank.

One of them held a clipboard and appeared to be reading through documents. Another spoke into a radio, communicating with someone I could not see.

The atmosphere was business-like and efficient, as if killing a man was just another routine task to be completed before breakfast.

I was marched across the frozen ground toward one of the wooden posts. Two soldiers grabbed my arms and tied them behind the post with rough rope that bit into my wrists.

They worked quickly and silently, refusing to meet my eyes as they secured my bonds.

When they finished, they stepped back and joined the formation of riflemen standing about 20 m away.

I looked at the faces of the soldiers who would soon point their weapons at my heart.

They were young men, most of them probably not yet 25 years old. They had been trained to obey orders without question and to see enemies of the state as less than human.

But as I looked at them, I did not see enemies. I saw lost souls who needed the same savior I had found.

I saw young men trapped in a system of lies and oppression who had never been given the chance to know the truth.

My heart filled with compassion for them. And I began to pray silently that God would open their eyes and soften their hearts.

The commanding officer stepped forward and unfolded a paper that contained the official death sentence.

He read aloud in a cold, formal voice, listing my crimes against the state and the punishment that had been decreed.

I barely listened to his words because they seemed so meaningless compared to the eternal truth I had experienced in my cell.

When he finished reading, he asked if I had any final words. I lifted my head and looked directly at the assembled soldiers.

My voice was steady and strong as I spoke words that came not from my own mind, but from the Holy Spirit flowing through me.

I said that I forgave every person who had beaten me and tortured me and condemned me to death.

I said that Jesus Christ had died for their sins just as he had died for mine and that eternal life was available to anyone who would believe in him.

I said that I was not afraid to die because I knew where I was going and I knew who was waiting for me there.

Some of the soldiers shifted uncomfortably at my words. Others stared straight ahead, pretending not to hear, but I saw a few faces that showed something different.

Confusion, curiosity, and perhaps the faintest glimmer of doubt about what they were about to do.

The commander raised his hand and shouted the order for the firing squad to take their positions.

12 soldiers stepped forward from the formation and formed a single line facing me. They raised their rifles to their shoulders and aimed at my chest.

I could see their fingers resting on the triggers and I knew that in seconds those triggers would be pulled and my body would be torn apart by bullets.

I closed my eyes and whispered the name of Jesus one final time. The commander began the countdown.

3 2 1. He shouted the order to fire, and I heard the click of 12 triggers being pulled simultaneously.

But the sound I expected to hear next never came. There were no explosions of gunpowder.

There were no bullets tearing through my flesh. There was only silence. A silence so complete and so unnatural that it seemed to swallow every other sound in the world.

I opened my eyes. What I saw made my heart stopped beating for what felt like an eternity.

The soldiers stood frozen in place with their rifles still aimed at my chest. But they were not moving, not blinking, not breathing.

It was as if time itself had stopped flowing and every person in the execution ground had been turned to stone.

The clouds in the sky hung motionless above us. The flags on the nearby buildings did not flutter.

Even the vapor from the soldiers breath had frozen in midair like tiny sculptures made of ice.

I looked around in astonishment trying to understand what was happening. And then I saw him.

Jesus was standing beside me, his white robes glowing with the same radiant light I had seen in my cell.

He was looking at the frozen soldiers with an expression of deep sorrow and boundless love.

He turned to me and spoke words that echoed through the stillness like thunder across a silent lake.

He said that the time had come for heaven to intervene. He said that these men had been given a chance to see his glory and to choose life over death.

He said that what happened next would be remembered for generations and would become a testimony that spread to the ends of the earth.

Then Jesus stretched out his hand toward the frozen soldiers and spoke a single word that I did not understand, but that carried power beyond anything I had ever witnessed.

Immediately, the world began to move again. But something had changed. The soldiers lowered their rifles slowly and stared at their weapons as if seeing them for the first time.

Several of them dropped their guns entirely and fell to their knees on the frozen ground.

The commanding officer stumbled backward with his hand pressed against his chest and his face pale with shock.

I heard cries of confusion and fear spreading through the assembled troops. Some soldiers ran away from the execution ground as fast as their legs could carry them.

Others stood rooted in place, trembling and weeping without understanding why. One young soldier walked toward me with wide eyes and a face stre with tears.

He fell on his knees before the post where I was tied and asked me in a broken voice what had just happened.

He said he had seen a light brighter than the sun surrounding me at the moment he pulled the trigger.

He said he had heard a voice speaking directly into his heart telling him that everything he believed was a lie.

He begged me to tell him about the god I worshiped because he knew now that this god was real.

The young soldier who knelt before me was named Private Kang Mong Jin and he became the first of many whose lives were transformed that morning.

His hands trembled as he reached up and untied the ropes that bound me to the wooden post.

The rough fibers fell away from my wrists, and I stepped forward on legs that felt stronger than they had ever been.

All around us, the execution ground had descended into chaos. Soldiers wandered in confusion, some weeping openly while others sat on the frozen ground with their heads in their hands.

The commanding officer had collapsed against a military vehicle and was staring at the sky with an expression of absolute terror.

His clipboard lay forgotten on the ground beside him and the papers containing my death sentence scattered in the wind like worthless leaves.

No one tried to stop Private Kang from freeing me. No one shouted orders or raised weapons against us.

The power that had been displayed was so overwhelming that every person present understood they were dealing with something far beyond human authority.

Private Kang helped me walk away from the execution post and we sat together on a small hill overlooking the grounds.

He poured out his heart to me like a dam that had finally burst. He told me he was 22 years old and had been a soldier for 3 years.

He told me he had participated in four executions before mine and that the faces of the people he had helped kill haunted his dreams every night.

He told me he had always felt empty inside despite following every rule and believing every teaching the state had drilled into his mind.

He said that when he pulled the trigger this morning, something impossible had happened. His rifle had refused to fire even though he knew it was loaded and functioning perfectly.

At the same moment, a blinding light had filled his vision, and he had heard words spoken directly into his soul.

The voice had told him that there was a God who loved him, and that everything he had been taught about life and death and meaning was a lie.

He asked me to explain what this meant, and I began to share the gospel with him right there on that frozen hillside.

Over the next hour, I watched the Holy Spirit work miracles in the hearts of men who had been trained to hate everything I represented.

Several other soldiers approached us hesitantly and asked to hear what I was telling Private Kang.

They sat in a circle around me like children gathering around a teacher, and I told them about Jesus.

I told them about creation and the fall of mankind into sin. I told them about God’s love for humanity and his plan to rescue us through his son.

I told them about the cross and the resurrection and the promise of eternal life for all who believe.

Some of them wept as they listened. Others asked questions with genuine hunger in their eyes.

By the time I finished speaking, eight soldiers had surrendered their lives to Jesus Christ, including Private Kang.

They prayed with me on that hillside, confessing their sins and receiving forgiveness, becoming new creations in a place that had witnessed so much death.

The very ground that was stained with the blood of martyrs now became the birthplace of new believers.

The commanding officer, whose name I later learned was Colonel Shin Jaiwan, remained seated against the military vehicle for a long time.

He did not approach our group or attempt to restore order among his troops. He simply sat there staring at nothing with a face that had aged 10 years in a single morning.

Eventually, he stood up slowly and walked toward me with uncertain steps. The soldiers around me tensed with fear, worried that he was coming to arrest me again or perhaps to kill me himself.

But I felt no fear in my heart. I knew that the same God who had stopped the bullets could handle whatever this man intended to do.

Colonel Shin stopped a few meters away from me and I saw something I never expected to see in the eyes of a North Korean military officer.

I saw tears streaming down his weathered cheeks. I saw confusion and shame and a desperate longing for something he could not name.

He opened his mouth to speak, but at first no words came out. When he finally found his voice, it was barely above a whisper.

He asked me how it was possible that 12 rifles had failed to fire at the exact same moment.

He asked me what the light was that several soldiers reported seeing around my body.

He asked me why he felt like everything he had dedicated his life to was suddenly meaningless and empty.

I answered him with the same truth I had shared with the soldiers on the hillside.

I told him that the God of heaven had intervened to save my life and to reveal his power to everyone present.

I told him that this God loved him despite all the terrible things he had done in service to the state.

I told him that forgiveness and new life were available to him if he would humble himself and receive them.

Colonel Shinn listened without interrupting. And when I finished speaking, he did something that shocked every soldier watching.

He fell to his knees before me and asked me to pray for him. This proud officer who had ordered countless executions knelt in the dirt and surrendered his soul to Jesus Christ while his troops watched in stunned silence.

The events of that morning could not be contained or covered up despite the efforts of military authorities in the hours that followed.

Too many soldiers had witnessed what happened and their stories spread like wildfire through the ranks.

Some of them were arrested and interrogated about the failed execution. But their accounts were so consistent and so filled with supernatural details that investigators did not know what to make of them.

Reports were filed and then buried. Officers were transferred to remote postings. Soldiers were warned never to speak of what they had seen.

But you cannot silence a miracle that has touched dozens of hearts. The testimony spread through whispered conversations and secret meetings.

It traveled from military bases to villages to cities across the province. People who had never heard the name of Jesus began asking questions about the God who could stop bullets and transform executioners into believers.

The underground church that I thought had been destroyed by my arrest began to grow faster than ever before as new seekers found their way to secret gatherings.

I was never officially released from custody. In the confusion following the failed execution, I simply walked away from the military grounds with Private Kang at my side.

No one tried to stop us and no one came looking for me in the days that followed.

It was as if the authorities did not know how to process what had happened and decided to pretend it never occurred.

I made my way back to Chongjin on foot, traveling through back roads and small villages to avoid detection.

The journey took 3 days and along the way I shared my testimony with everyone I met.

Farmers who gave me food, travelers who walked beside me for a few kilometers, villagers who offered me shelter for the night.

Each person listened with wide eyes as I described the light in my cell and the frozen moment at the execution ground.

Many of them had never heard the gospel before, but the evidence of God’s power in my story opened their hearts to receive the truth.

By the time I reached Chong Jin, I had planted seeds of faith in more than 30 souls.

The reunion with my wife, Hi Jin, was the sweetest moment of my entire life.

She had gone into hiding the day after my arrest, protected by believers who moved her from safe house to safe house while the authorities searched for her.

When I appeared at the door of the small apartment where she was staying, her face went pale as if she were seeing a ghost.

She had been told that I was executed and she had spent days mourning my death while trying to stay alive herself.

When she realized that I was truly standing before her, alive and whole, she collapsed into my arms and we wept together for a long time.

I told her everything that had happened and she praised God with a voice from crying.

Our son Junho returned from his hiding place near the Chinese border when word reached him that I was alive.

The three of us knelt together in that small apartment and thanked Jesus for the miracle that had preserved our family.

Today I am living in South Korea where I escaped 3 years after the failed execution.

The journey across the border was dangerous and difficult but God protected us every step of the way.

Private Kang Myong Jin escaped with us and is now studying to become a pastor himself.

Colonel Shin Ja Wan was eventually discovered as a secret believer and arrested. We received word that he died in a labor camp still holding on to his faith in Jesus.

He is a martyr now and I believe he received a crown of glory when he entered heaven.

The underground church in North Korea continues to grow despite the persecution. There are now hundreds of believers in the network that began with our small group of seven.

They worship in secret and risk their lives every day. But they will not be silenced.

The testimony of what happened at the execution ground has become one of their most treasured stories.

It reminds them that our God is still a God of miracles and that no weapon formed against his people will prosper.

I am sharing this testimony with you today because I want you to know that Jesus Christ is alive and real and powerful.

He is not a distant God who watches from heaven without acting. He is a present God who enters prison cells and stops bullets and transforms hearts.

Whatever darkness you are facing in your life right now, he sees you and he loves you and he is able to deliver you.

Do not give up hope. Do not stop believing. The same Jesus who appeared to me in that cell is with you right now.

Ready to meet you in your darkest moment and carry you through to the other side.

If you have never surrendered your life to him, I invite you to do it today.

Confess your sins and receive his forgiveness. Accept him as your Lord and Savior and begin a journey that will lead you through whatever fires this world may bring and into eternal life that never ends.

Our God is faithful. What he promises, he will surely do and his love endures forever.

To him alone be all the glory now and forever more. Amen.