“God alone fills my soul, my heart and my mind. God alone is sufficient for the purpose of what I think… I can have it only if my purpose of life is centred in seeking Him.”
At the time of writing this, my 78-year-old father, Jimmy Lai, had been incarcerated in a maximum security prison in Hong Kong for just over 500 days. By now, it has been over 1,930 days. For all but two of those days, he has been in solitary confinement.
Yet, in spite of his deteriorating health, the list of his ailments getting longer and the conditions he is kept in getting worse, he continuously answers anxiety with hope and trust: that which is found in looking to Our Saviour’s outstretched hands nailed to the Cross, pleading for forgiveness for us sinners. Being born shortly before the Cultural Revolution, nothing could be further from the ideology he was first taught as a child in Communist China, characterised by the clenched fist, sickle and hammer.
On February 9, 2026, my father was given a 20-year sentence. In his current conditions, he does not have 10 years, let alone 20. All he is accused of is his work as a publisher of the biggest pro-democracy, independent newspaper in Hong Kong. People referred to it as the ‘conscience of Hong Kong’. At its core, it is based on his belief in the sanctity of the individual. With the guidance of the Holy Spirit, as the grip of our communist neighbours tightened, he stuck to his principles and he never flinched.
In a letter he wrote to me a year ago, he described being separated from his worldly possessions and suffering in prison as being led from Emmaus back to Jerusalem, drawing a parallel with Luke 24:13-35. In another, he echoed St John of the Cross, St Thomas Aquinas or even Goethe in expressing that purity is a prerequisite for truth. He described his imprisonment as a ‘baptism’ to ‘make [himself] worthy to serve Him as His lowly servant’. This was followed by musings about whether his study of theology would equip him with better knowledge and ability to evangelise, and if his drawings of the Crucifixion and Blessed Mother would ‘express the truth of the picture’ and reach even hardened hearts.
On March 19, I had the immense privilege of speaking at the National Catholic Prayer Breakfast in Washington. When I saw the crowd, I was incredibly moved by the support for my father but also extremely nervous. All the letters my father sends and receives are examined with a fine-tooth comb. So, although I was eager to hear his advice, the letter focused on other aspects of the event, in the hope that he might one day be able to go himself. To my shame, my inability to ask my father about areas in which I fell short was sufficient to sour my mood. I went to Confession the following day.
In contrast, my father in prison sees setbacks instead as opportunities to grow in virtue. He reminded me to treat everyone we encounter as having ‘God hidden behind him’ and being a way of God offering His help. Guards who are harsh to him – there to teach him humility. The envelopes he folds, leading to severe back pains – there for him to grow in fortitude. His unjust persecution – there for him to learn the true meaning of charity. Or opportunities for me, his spoiled daughter, to do so. Like when he asks me to pray with him for those who mistreat him. He would say he was glad to be able to offer up his suffering for them, so they too may feel God’s mercy. Hearing that, even someone as stubborn as myself could not dig my heels in and continue to refuse to pray for those who contribute to my father’s suffering.
Throughout history, witnesses to the Faith and to the truth through their witness alone have softened hearts. Edith Stein, who witnessed someone go into a church to pray before the Blessed Sacrament, leading to her conversion and becoming St Teresa Benedicta of the Cross. Or members of the Legion of Mary in China who refused to recant their faith even under pain of imprisonment.
Our family prays that the Chinese authorities have their hearts softened and see the wisdom in releasing my father. As I listened to the Gospel on the 5th Sunday of Lent (John 11:1-35), narrating the death of Lazarus, I thought of what Dad wrote to me once: ‘It may not happen the way I pray for nor the time I want, but I know God will answer me. He knows what is best for me and when is best for me. God is in control. My role is to trust and believe with faithful perseverance and hope. Faith is to live in certitude of God’s mercy.’
Things happen in God’s time, on God’s terms. My father’s witness has taught me that Our Saviour is one who weeps at our sorrows, and to preserve our radical trust in Him.
