I stand quiet, staring at a hole that was dug just before the sun rose over the mountain. How did I come to be at this intimate place? A cold breeze whips through the trees and a wrinkled hand pulls me closer. As his body descends into the ground she rests her gray hair on my shoulder and begins to wail into my scarf. Her sorrow is deep, this pain will not cease overnight, yet I am the person she wants by her side.
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I met Albie at the beginning of February, during my first trip out to the Gypsy village of Doja. He lived with his wife in a small one room house that was just big enough for the bed, a wood-burning stove, and a single bench. Their dirt floor was covered by several rugs and plastic adorned their broken windows. They had heard that missionaries were in the area and asked the pastor if we could come and pray. Albie was suffering from a lung disease and in his old age was confined to bed.
On my first visit, I stood at their door, my boots sinking into the mud, and tapped lightly on the sheet of wood. Through a small crack I see an older woman turn a bent rusty nail (the only thing keeping the door shut during the snowy nights). Her bloodshot eyes tell me she has been crying, but her face lights up when I enter and she immediately pulls me in for a kiss on each cheek. Her husband Albie motions for me to sit beside him on the bed and I grab his hand as he gives me a sad look. Albie never smiles, he is in to much pain for that. I point to a canvas on the wall with a picture of Jesus, form a heart with my hands and point to Albie. He simply nods, because he knows the love of Jesus.
Albie’s wife touches my shoulder to get my attention. She starts to cry as she reaches to adjust Albie’s hat and then signs that it is time to pray. Questions suddenly flood into my head. What does she want me to pray for? What should I pray for? I want to pray for healing, no one wants to watch someone die, but I know that eventually he will die. Does God want to take him soon? Why has God called me here to this place?
I snap back to reality as Matt begins to pray. The emotion of the moment overtakes everyone in the room and one-by-one we each begin to cry. I stand up from the bed and join Albie’s wife who is now huddled with her face in the corner. She quickly spins to face me and wraps her arms around to pull me in close. We stand intertwined the remainder of the visit, listening to Albie’s labored breathing.
Over the next three weeks, I returned to Albie’s house multiple times a week. Each visit we would sing worship songs, pray for God’s will to be done, and I always thanked Jesus for bringing this family into my life. It didn’t matter that we were unable to communicate though words, because Albie and his wife taught me that love and friendship transcend language barriers.
On Wednesday of my final week in Romania, I was able to give Albie and his wife pictures that I had taken throughout the month and although he was in pain, I saw him smile for the first time. Two days later, we got the call that Albie had died.
The funeral was scheduled for our last day of ministry in Romania, and the family asked us to attend. While a photo can not express the the complete emotion of the day, I did my best to capture a few of the moments during the first part of the service. However, when we reached the grave, Albie’s widow hurried to my side. I could feel her pain in the squeeze of her hand and I knew that supporting her was far more important than capturing the moment. Some moments are just supposed to be lived.
When we reached the grave, Albie’s widow hurried to my side. I could feel her pain in the squeeze of her hand and I knew that supporting her was far more important than capturing the moment. Some moments are just supposed to be lived. So, there I stood, on a cold hill in Romania, physically restraining Albie’s widow so she didn’t fall to her knees. Imagine the saddest, most intimate moment your family has been through. Now imagine welcoming a stranger that doesn’t speak your language into your deepest pain. It is honestly something that I can’t explain, but I am thankful that God sent me to Romania. If only for that one moment, to be a shoulder to cry on for one person, this entire journey has been worth it.
REST IN PEACE ALBIE — YOU WERE LOVED
