When I got a job working at East Central Ministries, I thought it was interesting that I lived and worked in a place that was once known as the “War Zone”. Now that I serve in Razbonei, (roughly translated as “War Zone” in Romanian), I’m starting to see that God always has a bigger plan .
We walked around dilapidated apartments and hand out flyers to the neighborhood youth. Our plans were to target the kids and serve them with music and testimonies about Jesus.
However, as per normal, God had other plans.
During rehearsal, a group of the biggest, burliest, Romanian men came in and sat down. They glared at us for the first half hour or so. Our contact, a svelte pale man with a passion for bringing Christ, looked over to the group and did a silent double take. His expression did not shift, so I thought I was imagining things. Our team continued to socialize, and a few of us dared to inch closer to our new guests. They stared at us and mumbled to each other in quick Romanian. After a few awkward stares, I walked over and tried to talk.
“Che mai fach,” (“What’s up man?”) I said, assuring myself that I was not butchering every Romanian syllable.
A heavily tattooed scalped man, that looked to be in his thirties, moved his gaze at me, “Biene.” (“Good.”) I looked in his tired brown eyes. They watered and were slightly bloodshot. I could see the pain. I could see his was leery at what I would do/what his friends would say later after talking with me. Finally, I looked behind his ear and saw a black inked squiggle shinning under the white florescent lights. Seeing we had a common interest, I gestured to his tattoos and pointed to my “love your enemies” piece on my wrist. He smiled, and lifted up his sleeves and shirt, revealing a chiseled physique and many more beautifully dark tattoos. I showed him my back pieces and his smile turned into a grin. I called over Vallie, our translator, and asked him how long his big pieces took. We both winced in pain we gave a look of understanding.
While I can only speak a half of a lick of Romanian, I was amazed at how God bonded us over similar interest. It seems as if when my parents told me, “If you dig deep enough, you can always find common ground,” they weren’t lying. I went to bed remembering his smile seemed like he was meeting an old friend: a grin that shows the beginning of healing. We spent the rest of the time before worship charading our satisfaction with each other’s body art. I’m not sure why, but I felt really used by God in that moment.
We debriefed the next morning with Cristi. He was very pleased with the night, even though the men we talked to didn’t say long enough to even hear the bible study. When we asked why he was so elated, he said, “Those guys were a part of one of the largest and most dangerous band in Razbonei.”
“Band?” Nate, one of my teammates asked.
“You mean like music?” I asked.
Kristi’s eyebrows knitted together, “No… no… like territory… em…”
“You mean like ‘gang’?” another squadmate clarified.
Kristi smiled like a kid, “Yeah… gang. Those tattoos were gang tattoos. Didn’t you know that?”
Sometimes, whenever I think I’m not “doing ministry”, God shows his fingerprints all over my life, reminding me that He never wastes a moment with two of His children.
