Finally, in October 1976, Gottlieb flew to South Korea to get the children. By then, they ranged in age from 3 to 15. As they said goodbye to their parents, Mi Yun’s father, not normally affectionate, hugged her so hard she didn’t know how to respond. Dressed in hanboks, a traditional Korean outfit, they boarded the plane with Father Lee, Gottlieb and another escort. Gottlieb held the two youngest children, one of whom wept. Across the aisle, Mi Yun looked at a prayer book from her first communion in which she’d written her parents’ names, their birth dates, her home address. “Please, God, don’t let me forget them,” she thought as she memorized the words.

Once they landed at John F. Kennedy International Airport, it was hard for some children to say goodbye to Gottlieb. One clung to her until her new mother pulled her away. Mi Yun, now 12 and renamed Jennifer, drove with her new parents to her new home on Long Island. As she looked out the window of their Ford Oldsmobile, she saw graffiti spilled across buildings, garbage piled high. Where is the wealth? The fancy buildings? The glamorous people wearing beautiful clothes? All the promises?

In the coming years, she and the other St. Lazarus children would make friends, learn English, bond and not bond with their new families, face prejudice in largely white schools, struggle with their identity. Jennifer loved her new parents, who wanted the best for her. But they had five adopted children in total, along with two older biological children. There was jealousy among siblings and abuse. Money was tight.

Back in South Korea, parents mourned. Whenever the mother of the two youngest girls heard a crying baby or a child say “umma,” Korean for “mom,” she turned around thinking it was one of her daughters.

True to Gottlieb’s promise, the Korean parents and children did stay connected. The children sent report cards, photos, news from their lives. In return, their parents sent letters, religious gifts, Korean trinkets.