The Survivor
Here’s
Act I
(Title card: “April 1975”, Photo of Plane, Orphans on Plane…war footage)
Tonight’s story is somewhat unique and calls for a different kind of introduction. It’s April 1975, the last days of a bloody, divisive theater of war. The place is South Vietnam.
What you see is what remains of an orphanage of children whose exodus is not only of violence and terror but exiting the stage of horror and trauma as the war is about to end. But for the occupants of these airplanes, their journeys are just beginning and momentarily, we’ll embark on one such trajectory.
For over 20 years, the countries of North and South Vietnam engaged in a bloody violent conflict. The engagement was a war of conquest by the communist country of North Vietnam against South Vietnam. The goal by North Vietnam was to unify the country under a communist regime modeled after Russia and China.
At the time the world was divided into countries that sought self-governing democratic republics versus those seeking autocratic communist regimes, so the stakes for human rights and self-determination were huge.
Millions had died by the time the conflict was coming to an end and more were being killed as the South Vietnamese capital of Saigon fell to the communists.
By this time, evacuation by sea was not possible due to blocked sea lanes, leaving only airlifts as options to evacuate. More and more cities were falling to the communist fighters as South Vietnamese started to flee in large numbers. Larger cities falling resulted in even more refugees departing.
Amidst the violence, death, and destruction happening all around on a daily basis, there were over 200 orphans at an orphanage called An Lac located in the slums of Saigon, the capital city of South Vietnam.
I had been born 8 months prior and at some point found myself at that orphanage, whether discovered as a foundling or handed off to the orphanage, I was abandoned. Whoever left me there did not come back for me.
The word ‘unloved’ comes to mind – how anyone might feel after being abandoned.
As South was about to lose the war, efforts were made by the United States to evacuate South Vietnamese orphans. The first plane to take off full of orphans crashed not too long after takeoff. The cargo doors blew out, taking part of the tail with it, causing decompression inside. The impact of the crash split the aircraft apart. 78 children died.
In the wake of this tragedy and with little time before Saigon was completely overrun by the North, an American woman who had been funding the An Lac orphanage by the name of Betty Tisdale coordinated an evacuation using two cargo planes.
Betty flew into Saigon only to find the South Vietnamese would only allow children under 10 to be evacuated and only if they had birth certificates. The problem was… many of the children, including me, did not have one.
Undeterred, Betty managed to procure a stack of blank birth certificates and started making up names and birthdates to fill the cargo manifests for two cargo planes.
She flew out 219 orphans before the city completely collapsed, conquered by the North Vietnamese, effectively ending the war. My birth parents were presumed killed during this time.
I want to take a minute and thank everyone who served either as a Vietnam war era veteran or was on active duty in Vietnam.
Act II
Upon arriving in the United States, most of the orphans landed at Ft. Benning, GA to be distributed to adoptive parents. The sickest of the orphans, around 20 of them, ended up in California. I was one of those orphans.
I was told later it was believed I had a 10% chance of living.
As it’s been told to me, I was given to an adoptive couple for which the father was a funeral director. It was believed at the time that if I didn’t survive, he could bury me rather quietly.
Airlifted orphans dying once they reached America wouldn’t play well with the public.
Sentiment towards Vietnamese orphans being airlifted was not good. Some felt only the American soldiers should be evacuated. Others said help was needed for kids at home.
We were not the most welcome people in our new country—and I wasn’t even well yet.
A period of hospitalization followed, after which I was deemed well enough to go home to a set of adoptive parents.
My adoptive parents were white and raised me as white. They already had a biological daughter four years older than me. I became an American citizen in 1981—which I thought made me like everyone else.
I grew up wanting to be accepted like everyone else and not wanting to be different.
There were times when I was rejected, and it was probably because I was different, but I never considered that being different was the reason.
I thought everything was fine until I was about 14.
Around that time, my adoptive parents divorced.
I didn’t understand then just how alone that can make you feel. Divorce can break you. It broke me. My sense of security, family, and safety was torn away in a single moment.
Believing people became… difficult.
Living through divorce was sheer terror. I woke up one moment and there I was—in the darkness.
How did it happen?
That was the question I asked myself. A question with no answer. No understanding of what was now, and no knowledge of what would be.
Perhaps this place of divorce is for the unloved.
From then on, it was hard to believe people when they said they would be in my life. The very people meant to provide security and safety had left.
I felt abandoned again—for the second time in my life.
School was difficult after that. I had a guidance counselor who helped me through those years. I spent many lunches and study periods in his office.
But once I graduated, I couldn’t hide my brokenness anymore.
There was no one left to help.
I was in a lot of pain. My world had collapsed.
In the coming years, I drank heavily and used drugs. It took away the pain—for a while.
But it was only temporary.
Act III
In time I moved to New York City. It was the ultimate escape.
But it wasn’t long before something horrific happened—9/11.
I was in NYC when it happened. It was deeply painful.
In the aftermath, a church called Morningstar New York was started by people from Nashville.
Going to that church led to a deeper encounter with God.
The starting point for a journey to God is often discontentment with the world.
After 9/11, many of us realized the world didn’t have what we needed.
So we went searching.
And there, for the first time, I found sanctuary, safety, and a community.
It was with those people I got to know Jesus.
Act IV (Epilogue – transformation)
Years later, sitting alone in a motel in Marina Del Rey, I realized something:
The pain in my life began when my parents divorced.
That was when everything broke.
So instead of turning to drugs, I cried out to God.
For the first time, I asked for healing—not escape.
And God answered.
Years later, something incredible happened.
For the first time in nearly 17 years, my adoptive mother and father stood in the same room.
Just for a moment—but it was enough.
It was healing.
From there, my life took on purpose.
Isaiah 1:17 became my anchor: defend the fatherless.
Being rescued gave me the capacity to rescue.
I worked with orphans in Africa. I helped the homeless in Los Angeles. I mentored inner-city kids.
And eventually, I adopted a girl who had no one.
People didn’t understand. I lost friends. I lost trust.
But I believed it was right.
And I gave her what I had always needed:
A family.
Closing
As people, we can feel lost, abandoned, and unloved.
But perhaps we are only unloved for a moment.
In the arms of God, there can be nothing but love.
There is a miracle waiting for those who ask.
There is nothing mightier than the love of God.
