My Son Stole My Sacred Hymns and Sold Them to a Seattle Megachurch for $85,000 — Then I Sang the Unpublished Second Verse in Front of His Congregation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 news of the federal injunction and the ongoing legal battle, coupled with Daniel’s carefully orchestrated smear campaign, turned into a relentless public assault. Daniel’s crisis PR firm doubled down, releasing a flurry of press statements and interviews. They painted a picture of me, Sun-Hee Park, as not just senile, but actively malicious—an illiterate, manipulative woman seeking to extort money from a respected religious institution and her hardworking son.
The local news outlets, drawn to the sensational drama, ran stories with headlines like, “Megachurch Embroiled in Family Feud, Claims of Elder Abuse.” While some reports acknowledged the legal complexity, Daniel’s narrative of me being “completely illiterate in musical notation” gained traction, undermining my credibility as a composer.
Clara Choi, fueled by her own desire to protect Grace Cathedral’s reputation and perhaps her own hidden deals, joined the fray. I saw her one morning, standing outside Grace Cathedral, dressed in a pristine white suit, handing out leaflets to parishioners. The flyers contained excerpts from Daniel’s press releases, reinforcing the claims of my supposed illiteracy and calling me a “tragic tool of anti-religious litigation.” Her face was set in a determined, almost zealous, expression.
The phone calls started. Anonymous numbers, harsh voices telling me to leave Daniel alone, to stop my “blasphemous attacks on the church.” My quiet life, once a sanctuary, felt invaded, exposed to the harsh glare of public scrutiny.
But I remained quiet. Each evening, as the Seattle mist clung to my windowpanes, I would sit at my kitchen table. The rhythmic hum of my sewing machine filled the silence. Fabric, thread, needle—these were my solace. With each stitch, I felt a quiet strength returning, a refusal to let their words unravel me completely. It was a familiar ritual, a meditation, an affirmation of my own reality.
Arthur Pendelton, however, was far from quiet. He was a storm in his own right, diligently building the forensic case. He gathered every scrap of evidence, every witness statement, every expert opinion. He didn’t respond to the public slander directly; his focus was on the courtroom, where facts, not fabricated narratives, would finally speak.
“Let them talk, Mrs. Park,” he had told me, his voice firm. “Every lie they tell now will only expose their desperation later. We are building a case that will speak for itself.”
And as the public chorus against me grew louder, I held onto his words, letting the quiet rhythm of my sewing machine be my answer.
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