Journey of Faith Took
Woman Away from
Vietnam and Family

EDITOR'S NOTE: Our series celebrating the different ways in which Oklahoma Catholics heard and answered the call to serve the Church continues as we enter the Centennial year of the Archdiocese of Oklahoma City.

By Madeline L.N. Bui

When I was in elementary school, I visited a pagoda every day to help the Buddhist monks. During high school I had to take a different route far from that temple.

As a result, I did not see the monks nor pray with them. However, I still visited that pagoda once a month with my paternal grandmother. I had no one to guide me in the practice of my beliefs. Buddhism did not require its followers to come every weekend to the pagoda for praying or listening to the preacher.

Like some young adults, I had high self-esteem. I had to get whatever I wanted and do whatever I wanted to do, with or without my parents’ or my older sister’s help.

When I had trouble, my parents and my sister were there to solve problems for me. I came from a middle-class family with four children. Twice I accepted scholarships to study abroad (in Japan from 1967-68 and in the United States from 1971-72). I studied International Public Law with the hope of working for the Vietnamese State Department, I thought I would stay single and try to discover the world.

But that plan changed. Imm-      ediately after coming home from the United States, one of my classmates from the University of Law arranged a date for me. The person introduced to me turned out to be someone I had worked with before I left the country to study. We knew each other well.

After dating for a while, we planned to get engaged. But I was shocked when I realized that I must be a Catholic first. Wasn’t Love not the only condition for marriage? I thought about breaking up with him, but he was very nice to me. We got along so well.

In addition, my mother, who is Catholic, fervently approved our relationship. Did God already have a plan for me? I did not want to loose the person I loved dearly, so I attended all of the required classes in a short time, going to class every evening after work. Reverend Nguyen van Thong, the rector of the Cathedral of Our Lady of Perpetual Help in Saigon, whom I highly respected, carefully taught me Catholic doctrine. The practices I learned from my mother nourished my faith. We were finally married. My life had changed not only because I married but also because I had truly become a Catholic. I am so happy whenever I have the chance to attend mass, side by side with my husband, learning more and more about the Gospels.

When my first baby was six months old, my husband received a scholarship from the Department of State in Washington, D.C.I could not be selfish and stop him because I understood that it was a very nice honor. At that time, we did not know that would be the last time he said goodbye to his country. The war erupted after he left.

On an evening in April 1975, upon coming home from work, I saw that my parents, my sister, and my two nieces had come to visit. We had dinner and chatted. They did not leave until late that night. Then my brother came to say goodbye; he was trying to escape the country. After he left, I turned on the television. “Oh my God!” the city was under curfew an hour ago. I burst into tears. I prayed so hard, asking God to not let my brother be arrested. I cannot remember how many times I repeated my prayers.

Suddenly, there was a knock on the door. I jumped up, hoping that God had returned my brother, but I hesitated to open the door. It was past 10:00 p.m. I was alone with three twelve-year-old kids and my baby. I waited for my brother to speak, but my name was called by a woman’s voice. When I recognized the voice, I answered the door. My two sister-in-laws snuck in and told me, “We have to leave the country early tomorrow morning. That was all I heard, even if they told me something else. I almost fell down with that news. I forgot to thank them for their courage. They walked three miles during the late hours of the night to deliver that message. They could have easily been arrested, and I knew for certain that my husband’s parents would not have left the country without all of their children.

How could I go to the United States without any processed paperwork at all? What would happen to the rest of my family after I left? I did not have any money with me (I kept a one-hundred-dollar bill as a souvenir but I had already given it to my brother that evening to aid his escape). We also had to leave before the bank opened. I stared at my baby, who was sound asleep. I thought about the past two months.

As the war worsened, it became more and more difficult for my husband and I to write to each other freely. However, I received letters from him emphasizing that our baby should be wherever his mother is. I could not stay and let my baby go with my in-laws, not knowing when I would see him again. I could not make any decision in this situation without discussing it with my family.

These thoughts were interrupted by the dog’s barking, which grew louder and louder. It was midnight, under curfew. What was going on? I turned off the lights, so I could open the window to find out. Oh no! A group of policemen with flashlights were searching inside and outside of our building. They had reached the fourth floor; we were on the seventh floor. The only thing they could be doing was checking for illegal occupants. I held my breath. “My Lord, how do I handle this? There are five illegal persons staying with me tonight. God, please help me.” Then I asked my sisters in-law to take their clothes out of their bags and put them in the closet. We made the house look very dark and quiet; we were trying to convince the policemen that we were already asleep. If the policemen wanted to check on us, we would not answer the door. Let them break in if they want to get in! All of us sat down on the floor in the comers, looking at each other. I knew my sisters in-law were praying. I began shaking. I was scared. So many things had happened that night. Fortunately, the area was silent. The policemen did not bother us. Thank God. That was the first time in my life where I could tell that God heard our prayers. God is truly present in our midst.

After this event, I calmed down, regained my strength, and prayed again. “My Lord, please let me know your will in this situation: stay with my family or go with my baby. I am listening. Please let me hear you. Either way, I have to make an equally sad decision.”

There were only a few more hours left before we had to leave. My sisters in-law were stuffing their bags. As I made a bag for my baby, my tears fell upon the powdered milk cans that were coming along (I was told that we might stay in the forest for an indefinite time). I asked my other brother, “Do you want to go to America with me?” He joyfully answered, “Sure. I will go.” But I did not ask my two nieces because the girls would face more risk than the boys in any danger. As for myself, I did not know whether I would be allowed to enter the appointed place because I did not carry my husband’s last name yet (changing the last name after marriage is not a Vietnamese tradition).

At four o’clock in the morning, I talked to God again. “My Lord, if you want me to go with my baby, please make it a safe trip for all of us.” We left the house before dawn. I remember how we did not walk together. Each of us took the elevator at different times, we walked on different sides of the street. Once in a while, we glanced at each other, but we acted like we were strangers. In addition to worrying about our escape, I worried about my two nieces staying at my house by themselves. I hoped that my father would still stop by every day like he had done in the past. I could not imagine how he would react when he found out three of his four children might not be around anymore.

We arrived at the secret point and were driven to the airport. We spent a day there, watching aircraft land and take off. We had no idea when it would be our turn to step into a huge iron   bird. Finally, it was our turn; I could not stop myself from crying. “My Lord, from now on, I might not see my family again. Please take care of them. They are in your hands.” The door closed. Every evacuee, with dreams of a better place in their eyes, was relieved when the plane was in the sky.

A few hours later we got off the airplane. A jeep brought us to a newly setup camp. Folding outdoor beds rested among high weeds, tall grass, and dry branches. At least six beds were put under a tent to form one unit. Early in the morning, everybody lined up to get food and baby formula. We lined up again in the evening for our dinner rations. That was our shelter. For how long? Who knew? But at least, from then on, my baby would be with me. He was my only motivation to survive. I lost my family and everything I had gained in thirty years to obtain what I would have for the rest of my life: FREEDOM.

I posted my information everywhere, hoping my other brother had made it to the same refugee camp. Day after day, I felt worse instead of better. I thought about handing our lovely baby to my husband, who was waiting for us in Washington, D.C. Then a sad idea entered my mind: my husband could find another person to live with for the rest of his life, but I could not replace my family. I felt very guilty and wanted to go back and live under the Communists’ control, sharing the hardship with my family.

One day my baby began having a fever. He was very uncomfortable and cried constantly. Holding him was like holding a piece of light burning charcoal. At noon, when people often needed quiet, if he started crying, I had to take him out of the tent and find shade so he could sleep. Every day I took him to the emergency room, where he was given baby Tylenol only. His fever could not be under controlled. I almost gave up. I murmured to God, “My Lord, if it is time for my baby, please take him home with you now so I can find ways to go back home.” If anything happened to him after I crossed the Pacific Ocean, it would have been very difficult for me to go back. I could not face my husband without our baby”. I repeated to God the same prayer every time I held him. How painful for a mother to have such prayers for her first child! Did I act like a crazy person? Had I lost my mind? But my baby was still very sick and weak; I was very much exhausted.

On the fifth of May, we learned that our names were accepted to leave the camp for the United States. My in-laws were very happy, ready to meet their children who were already living in the U.S. They had not seen them for a few years. Since then I became very quiet, lived in my own world with God. My brother was too young to share my thoughts. Early in the morning on the sixth of May, we prepared to go to the airport. I took very slow steps, holding my baby and wishing that I did not have to leave the camp so soon. Walking toward the airport shuttle stop, I saw a sign with a big red cross on it. I ran to it, hoping my baby can be cured. I did not care about missing the airplane. I was able to speak to a doctor and found out that my baby suffered a severe infection from teething. The doctor gave him some antibiotic and sleeping liquid for a long trip from the Philippines to Guam, during which we sat on the floor of an overcrowded aircraft. That doctor saved my baby’s life (I send my sincere thanks to any physician who really cares about the health of his patients). That was the second time I could feel the grace of God in answering my prayers.

My faith continued to grow strongly, and I talked to God more often. But I did not know what to do in return for the blessings I received. Until 1988, when I saw a job opening at the Pastoral Center in the Cathedral’s weekly bulletin. With my accounting degree I was confident I could fulfill the duties of the job, but lay ministry was something completely new, compared to my twenty years of experience in bank accounting. I got the job and have really enjoyed what I have done for the past sixteen years and will do for many years more.

Sometimes I wish I could be an evangelist so I could spread the Good News to everyone and show everyone how we can get blessings from God by praying. Saint Monica is the greatest image in helping me to pray continuously and patiently.

May I pray God touch all our hearts so all of us can feel the beauty, the blessings, the truth of our Lord and live in peace.