My Son Stole My Sacred Hymns and Sold Them to a Seattle Megachurch for $85,000 — Then I Sang the Unpublished Second Verse in Front of His Congregation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 federal court’s preliminary injunction hearing forced Daniel’s hand. As part of the discovery process, Arthur Pendelton received a torrent of documents: corporate bank records, licensing agreements, and digital asset registries from “Grace Hymnal Media.” He buried himself in the paperwork, his office looking like a battlefield of legal files.
I sat in his office one afternoon, a cup of green tea growing cold in my hand, as he meticulously reviewed a thick binder. He muttered to himself, marking pages with brightly colored tabs.
Then, he stopped. He leaned back in his chair, a look of grim satisfaction spreading across his face.
“Mrs. Park,” he said, pushing a printed sheet of paper across the desk. “Take a look at this.”
It was a spreadsheet, dense with numbers and names of churches. My name was nowhere on it.
“This is a catalog,” Arthur explained, tapping the page. “Not just ‘Song of the Quiet River.’ Daniel didn’t just copy one hymn, Mrs. Park. He took your entire body of work. Forty distinct instrumental and vocal pieces. Every single composition you’ve ever written, spanning three decades.”
My eyes scanned the list, seeing titles I hadn’t thought about in years: “Prayer of the Morning Star,” “River of Solace,” “The Seamstress’s Melody.” Each one was a piece of my history, my memories, my unspoken prayers.
“He registered them all under his corporate entity,” Arthur continued, his voice tight with controlled anger. “And he’s been licensing them out. To one hundred and twenty megachurches across North America. Not just in Seattle.”
He then showed me another document, a summary of revenue. The numbers swam before my eyes.
“Since he started ‘Grace Hymnal Media’ five years ago,” Arthur stated, his voice devoid of emotion, “Daniel Park has generated over one point four million dollars from your work. One million, four hundred thousand U.S. dollars.”
I could only stare at the figure. One million, four hundred thousand dollars. While I worked ten-hour shifts, hunched over a sewing machine, making just enough to pay my modest rent and buy groceries. While he publicly smeared me as senile and confused.
Arthur pushed another document forward. It was a recent property deed.
“And a significant portion of that,” he added, “one point two million dollars, to be exact, he used to purchase a luxury penthouse in downtown Seattle. A place with panoramic views of the entire city.”
I imagined Daniel, high above the streets, looking down on the city, on my humble apartment, on the very church where I had been ejected. The contrast was a physical blow. He built his empire on my sacrifices, my art, my very soul, while leaving me with nothing but threadbare dignity. My heart felt hollowed out, aching with a profound and bitter loneliness.
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