We packed the car, changed the oil, picked up the team, stopped for supplies, baked in the sunshine through the van windows, and arrived, five hours later, at the border of Serbia and Hungary (about an hour and a half north of Novi Sad, Serbia, where my team is serving this month with Novi Sad Christian Fellowship Church – the largest Evangelical Christian church in Serbia, with 200 members).
Our ministry host slowed, and our cornfield scenery became littered with tents, clothing, food, and trash. I took a deep breath as we came to a stop and crawled out of our van.
We had pulled up in front of another group of visitors, many of whom spoke English. As we introduced ourselves and became acquainted, we learned that they were providing medical care, clothing, and food to the refugees waiting to get across the border into Hungary.
Too bad they had just closed the border three days ago.
Most of the refugees had left the area in the past week, headed next to the Croatian border in hopes of moving on to a country that is a part of the EU.
While half of our team stayed to pass out water, milk, food, and clothing to the refugees now queuing up behind our van, four of us walked half a mile through a field ravaged with trash, shelters, and dirty clothing.
We arrived at another border crossing barricaded and enveloped by circles of barbed wire, juxtaposed by a sign welcoming us to Serbia. This, we learned, is where the families hoped to cross. This is where we saw children sleeping in tents and families sitting together. This is where my grocery bag full of crackers first felt far less significant than I anticipated it would. Yes, a 2-year old did reach out and smile when I gave her her own bag of crackers. Yes, the parents did thank me. No, they did not know how long they would be there. No, they did not need more crackers. They needed a place to bathe and a real meal. They needed to know where they could get across the border. They needed shoes that fit them so they didn’t have to have their heels hanging off of the back. They needed a political shift to allow them to move forward, and they needed something to comfort them as they mourned their lost loved ones and wondered where their new home would be. They needed Jesus.
How do you waltz up to someone in this kind of distress and say, “God loves you and has a plan for your life?” Words failed me in that moment. I smiled and let them know we pray for them. I asked the Lord why I was there.
As we walked back to the van, we found a young boy playing “bowling” with a tire and waterbottles. One of our Serbian teammates handed him a box of milk and patted his head, stirring a smile onto the boy’s face. Another searched through her bag and found shoes to place over his socks, the only thing protecting his feet from the wreckage of the border site. My heart warmed; I approached him and used my growing confidence in hand gestures to ask him if I could play. We took turns, and he was far better at it than me.
Soon, his parents waved him over. A large bus was leaving for the Croatian border and they were boarding immediately. There was no time to carefully pack and repack their bags to decide what to take into their new life, as I had spent hours pouring over my pack as I left for 11 months. They had been there a month and they were leaving, NOW.
Suddenly, my heart softened. I knew my heart was wrong, yet I had become disgusted by the wreckage and trash these refugees were leaving behind. First of all, there were no trash receptacles for these people to keep the area clean. As I watched these people climb onto the bus, I saw a little girl waddle to keep her winter jacket around her waist and simultaneously catch up to her mom. One man had told my teammate, “If I told you my story, you would be very sad.” These people, these human beings with thirst in their throats and love in their hearts and blisters on their feet – they have left behind their homes, neighborhoods, and kitchens. They have lost family members and said goodbye to friends, permanently. Their worlds and hearts are full of grief, devastation, and confusion, and we want them to pick up a cup? Sometimes we have to remember what matters.
Following this trip, we have visited two other areas to serve refugees. Each location held a different experience. They’re not simply “Syrian refugees.” These people come from Iraq, Pakistan, Afghanistan, Burma, India, Syria, and the list goes on.
At another location, a man stepped out of a group we were sitting with to unroll his sleeping bag. “I’m rich,” he joked as he offered us a seat on it. They offered us food, drink, and cigarettes (which we politely declined), and told us, “We don’t need more food. We need the border to open.” We asked what we could do; they said, “Socialize.”
So here I am, “socializing.” I’m here to let you know the people you see on the news – they’re real. They’re funny and inventive and they play games and say “thank you.” The moms rock their babies and the young men walk around together and poke fun. They’re searching for a safe home that you and I wake up in every morning and go to bed in every night.
Please pray for these people as they grab their bags and disappear into the cornfields, on to another leg of their journey. At this point I have no answers, simply a story to share. Pray about what you can do from America. Pray that years from now, when these refugee children’s parents and grandparents are sharing about “the hard days,” they have met the living God and they declare His goodness and healing in their lives. Pray for wisdom for the political leaders as they navigate an overwhelming situation.
Pray they find a home.
