My Son Stole My Sacred Hymns and Sold Them to a Seattle Megachurch for $85,000 — Then I Sang the Unpublished Second Verse in Front of His Congregation
The chaos in Grace Cathedral faded into the cold Seattle rain outside. Arthur Pendelton had escorted me past the stunned security guards and Clara Choi’s furious glares. He promised to call me, leaving me with a business card that felt strangely heavy in my hand.
I walked home through the downpour, the chill seeping into my bones, but the real cold was in my heart. Forty songs. My son had taken everything.
The next morning, the smoldering embers of Daniel’s anger ignited into a wildfire. It started subtly, then spread across every social media platform associated with Grace Hymnal Media and Grace Cathedral.
A professionally produced video appeared first. It was slick, with soft, mournful music playing in the background. It showed carefully edited clips of me. One frame was of me, disoriented after a long shift at the sewing machine, looking for my glasses. Another was from a family picnic years ago, where I had fumbled for words in English while trying to explain a Korean proverb.
The video montage painted a clear, cruel picture.
The accompanying text, released by “Grace Hymnal Media’s Executive Board,” spoke of “the tragic onset of severe late-stage dementia” affecting “a beloved elderly family member.” It claimed I was being “exploited by opportunists” and “anti-church activists seeking to extort money from legitimate Christian ministries.”
My own son had done this.
He followed it up with carefully worded press releases, distributed to local media, reiterating the narrative of my supposed mental decline. The comments section exploded with sympathetic messages for Daniel and scathing remarks about me.
“Poor Daniel, dealing with a senile mother.”
“These activists will stop at nothing.”
The worst part was how quickly people believed it. I felt it most acutely at the Korean grocery store a few days later. Mrs. Kim, who usually shared stories about her grandchildren, averted her gaze when I passed her in the kimchi aisle. Mr. Lee, the butcher, gave me my usual order of galbi with an uncomfortable silence, avoiding eye contact.
Even the cashier, a young woman I’d known since she was a girl, offered a pitying look.
“Mrs. Park,” she said softly, “I’m so sorry to hear about your… troubles.”
She didn’t specify what “troubles.” She didn’t have to. The shame burned in my cheeks hotter than any fever. I held my head high, bought my groceries, and walked home, the quiet judgment of my community a heavier burden than the bag of rice in my arms. Daniel hadn’t just stolen my music; he was trying to steal my dignity, piece by painful piece.
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