Never in a million years would I have thought that I would have found love in Ukraine.
But love is, in fact, all that I have found in Ukraine this month.
I’ll be honest; I came on the Race with Ukraine at the bottom of my “What country are you most excited to visit?” list.
Although, I’m not sure why.
Maybe it was because I didn’t know the culture. I know of the culture in South America, Africa and East Asia- both the pros and cons- and not every country can be hospitable, so Ukraine had to be one that wasn’t, right? Maybe it was because I didn’t know the country. I mean, what is Ukraine known for besides communism, right? Maybe it was the weather. They all wear parkas all year long because it’s so cold, right?
Whatever it was, I was okay if God decided to route change us and, instead, we went to another random country.
I had no attachments to Ukraine.
Well, I had no attachments to Ukraine until three weeks ago.
Immediately upon entering the country, I fell in love. I remember peering out the window on our overnight train thinking, “This is Ukraine… Wow.” I was astonished and I have no idea why, considering all I could see was trees, train tracks and the occasional person waiting at the crossing.
I wanted to write this blog to tell you how God has placed Ukraine in my scopes- how I love this country. But I don’t know what to write because I am not exactly sure why I love Ukraine so much.
Maybe it’s the scenery.
Whenever we go to our eyeglass clinic ministry, we drive. For at least three hours. Usually, I’m not a huge fan of three-hour-long 6 a.m. car rides where I know I will spend a day bring completely used up in ministry and then turn around and drive back home at 6 p.m. for another three hours.
But, these car rides have become my sanctuary. They have become my “I can see God in this” time. Every time I get into the big, red van, I gaze out the window, awestruck, at the land as we pass by God’s glorious creations in Ukraine.
Through the backseat panes of glass, I watch as miles upon miles of Beech and Walnut trees line the sides of the highway; Dogwood and Evergreen trees are also scattered amongst them. As we reach a clearing in the trees, I can see the farms span for acres. Some of the farms are already blooming with vegetables or with millions of vibrant yellow sunflowers—sunflower oil being one of Ukraine’s largest exports. The sunflowers are so bright and vivid, it appears as if you are approaching a wall of yellow that is blinding as it reflects the sun. It is only as you are next to the field that you see they are blooming sunflowers stretching towards the sun.
In the back of the fields, you squint to make out the figure: a man and his wife working the land with old-fashioned, worn-out hoes and tilling from morning until night. Their clothes are dirty and their sweat pours out in the hot 85 degree sun directly overhead, but their efforts are not in vain. They are preparing to harvest the food that will sustain them for the winter, which they will go inside and can or sell to make money to buy fresh food before the heavy snows set in.
We cannot go anywhere without encountering the “summer snow.” The Dogwood trees, much like Cottonwood in the States, have reached the peak of their blossoms and are shedding the white, fluffy blooms in this spring season. The brisk, gentle wind catches the flakes and carries them, swirling them in the air before dropping them like snow in your hair, on your clothes, and often into your nose as you breathe in. The ground is covered in a layer of white, especially thick in the corners of sidewalks and sticking to the bottoms of your shoes and sometimes sneaking in the windows and onto your food.
The mounds and hills roll on in the distance, appearing as if they are ant hills until you get right under them and see their magnitude. The hills stretch to the sky and often have quaint houses, farms and lightpoles built upon them. The burnt-orange and light brown coal mines leave my mouth agape. They are enormous and intimidating with all the equipment piled on top of their plateaus. My naïve brain didn’t previously comprehend that young boys, like the son of a family we met, still work in the dangerous coal mines for next to no salary but see no other options for providing for their families.
Maybe it’s the culture.
Yes, Ukraine has its list of superstitions. Yes, we have been scolded and yelled at (in Russian) for sitting on the floor because it is said to make women infertile and we World Racers love to sit down at any occasion, chair or not, but Ukrainians take that superstition very seriously.
Despite that, their culture is wonderful beyond words.
Hospitality isn’t an option here, it’s simply their life.
We have neighbors who sacrifice their own showers to allow us to wash our nasty, dirty bodies when our one bucket shower of freezing water doesn’t suffice for seven women. Neighbors who give us vacuum-packed jars from their personal supply of their garden vegetables that they canned earlier in the season, not hesitating to make sure they have enough to supplement for their own families. There are women who spend all day cooking us a pot of traditional borsch to surprise us with a homemade dinner, even though they have to also cook for their own family and are exhausted. When we walk to and from the supermarket a mile or so away, we have strangers pull over and ask if we need a ride- in a not creepy way, although we always politely refuse.
There are church members who welcome us in like we have attended the church our entire life and are genuinely interested in who I am and what makes me unique—and they remember everything you told them the next time you see them. Friends who have canceled their plans and hurried home after their church service to make us a complete traditional meal from scratch because we have simply expressed an interest in trying it. Community members gather around a picnic table and sing Russian worship songs to us for hours as the night sky hangs overhead.
Maybe it’s the people
They have made it easy to fall in love with everyone I have met in Ukraine.
We are blessed with an amazing host family this month. A family whose humbleness and servant hearts precede their own words. A family whose children long to soak up every minute with us that they can before we leave. Children who ask to come to our apartment across the street to “hang out with the team”, even when they know it means they will just be sitting on the fold-out beds, maybe coloring, if we can find some paper. A pops who sits and drinks coffee while he tells us stories- stories of his life, of the country, of the culture, of their ministry. A mom who takes care of our needs- doing a load of laundry for us each week, taking us to the market, showing us where the alteration place is to hem our jeans, who disciples us around the kitchen table as we prepare dinner, and feeds our souls and stomachs until they overflow.
I already touched on our neighbors up above and cannot fathom the correct words to describe them. But, who else has a neighbor who will come over to fix you delicious fried doughnuts and notice your sink isn’t draining correctly, so she spends an hour trying to unclog it. Then, as she goes into the bathroom to wash her hands because the kitchen sink still isn’t quite fixed, she sees the toilet isn’t flushing correctly. So, of course, she spends the next hour pouring hot water in the pipes and plunging and snaking the pipes. They are just beyond words…
The babushkas whom we have encountered during the eyeglass clinics bring tears to my eyes. I watch as their frail bodies slink into the room, head down as their head scarf covers the majority of their face as it falls down further with each unstable step they attempt. As they’re guided into the chair and they lift their heads for the first time, you see the life they have lived as if it’s painted on their faces. They literally tell the stories of the communism era, of fighting, of freedom, of lost loved ones, of love and heart-break that their faces have already conveyed. Their wrinkled hands shake and their tired eyes strain as they try with everything they have to read the lines of simple letters only feet from their face.
Some get angry, some get frustrated, some cry.
They are reassured as they are told that it’s ok if they cannot read any further, that’s what the glasses will be for. That this is just a test to see what strength they need; that they are not failures because they cannot read the print yet. The oversized, black, metal, modern frames are placed on their discouraged “old country” faces and, as the first circle of thick glass is slipped into place, their expressions change. Their hopeless faces show a new emotion: joy. They can read the next line. But not any further. Another piece of glass in inserted and more joy, more excitement spring forth; they can read all the lines now and you can read it on their faces.
The clunky black metal frames are removed and replaced with a thin, gold pair of glasses the same magnification strength. “читать” (read) A contagious smile rips through their face and the words on the paper flow out of their mouth with confidence.
Some of them cry, some of them repeat “Ñ�паÑ�ибо” (thank you) over and over as they are ushered out the door, some ask for multiple pairs just in case something were to happen to the first pair, some are utterly speechless.
All leave with a renewed spirit because of a simple pair of glasses that allow them to read their bible, see their sewing needles, watch the TV, see things in the distance or just eliminate their headaches from eye strain and squinting. They constantly remind me of hope, of joy, of thankfulness, of the magnitude of simplicity.
A family in Novorossosh opened their home, their hearts, and their kitchen to us during four days of eyeglass clinics we did. I lost myself in their daughter, Anya’s, vibrant blue eyes as taught me how to read and speak Russian, how to count in Russian, how to play the piano piece she was practicing (sight-reading is coming back full force on the Race! Hah), and just hugged me and said she loved me. I rough-housed with their older son as I threw him on the bed and had pillow fights and we laughed until our sides hurt and then he’d wrap his arms around me and follow me like a shadow. I listened, awestruck as their older daughter, Polina, sang Russian hymns with her beautiful, mature voice, ready and willing to praise God at every turn. I sat with their youngest son, Rueben, as he “read” to me from my bible and almost peed my pants laughing as he sat on my chest and planted sloppy, wet kisses on my face and then held my face ever so tenderly. He would look at me with mischievous eyes and then rip off his pants and jump on my bed and I would shake my head and laugh as he motioned for me to join him—and I did jump on the bed (although my pants stayed on!). I thanked God for the opportunity to show those kids love as they did the same to me.
I sat with their mother, Nadia, and listened as we played the “Russian-English” game with “moon”, “stars”, “sun”, “hot”, “cold”, and about every food item you can think of that we ate during our time there. She wrapped her arms around my neck and hugged me when she saw I was sad and danced with me in the kitchen. I laughed as their dad made ridiculous faces and talked, assuming we could understand him- which we could not. I choked back tears as he sang Russian hymns with his friends and talked about the days of communism. I rejoiced in their joys and cried in their sorrows. I felt like a part of another family.
Then there are my African friends who have loved me since the second they met me at the MacDonald house as I poured out my love for Uganda and how much I missed it. They declared themselves my brothers and sisters and have treated me like it since then. They greet me with hugs, kisses, handshakes, exclamations about seeing me, and “I’ve missed you”s. They fight to talk to me after church service and I cannot go a single day without at least five of them finding me on Facebook and sending me a friend request and messages filled with blessings.
And, of course, there is my dear friend, Williams. He has embraced me since I walked up to him and started crying, overwhelmed with how much he reminded me of my friend in Uganda in almost every way and how his accent made me miss my African friends. Instead of tucking tail and running like a normal human would do, Williams ran head-on into me. He sat down and dug in deep, asking me questions about myself for an hour, as I rapid-fired them back at him. Even before asking the questions, though, I knew most of the answers; my intuitions are lined up accurately on that man. I knew when he was being humble and pushed him to admit he was good at things and I can tell when he is holding back. He can do the same with me; he knows when something is wrong with me and he knows when I’m only divulging half of what I’m feeling. He asks the tough questions that make me cringe and doesn’t give up when I withdraw. He pushes me to my limits—in the best way possible. I feel like I can tell him anything and am not afraid that he will pass any judgment. He seeks God in everything he does and has a servant’s heart bigger than anyone that I’ve ever seen.
Along with taking classes fulltime at the local medical university and studying to be a doctor, he is specializing in gynecology and wants to help his home country, Nigeria, and eventually the rest of the world. He dreams of opening a clinic that can offer whatever services the community needs and it will be absolutely free of charge. Despite his fashion-forward outfits and lack of desire to ever wear a t-shirt and sweatpants, he isn’t afraid to get down on the ground with the children around him and make them laugh. He is pastor at a church that shepherds about 250 medical students from Africa at a “home away from home” church. He is the most passionate worshipper I have ever encountered, leaving his all at the feet of God every time, all while sweating buckets from jumping, dancing, and throwing his hands forth in adoration and praise. He sacrifices his own plans to drive us around or cook a traditional Nigerian lunch for us.
There is so much more that I could rattle off as possible reasons as to why I fell in love in Ukraine, but I can already see the word count at 2,500 and know it’s much too long for blog readers…
I can’t pinpoint what made me fall in love with this country, but there are two things I am sure of:
1. I will bawl like a baby when I have to leave Ukraine in just five days because my heart will be breaking
2. This is not a “goodbye” to Ukraine, but instead, it’s just an “I’ll definitely see you later”
