Day 3 in Romania, 44 people squished together on the concrete outside our house, keeping as quiet as possible, so as not to wake the 3-month old sleeping in the room behind us. With the first signs of fall, everyone’s bundled up, sheets wrapped around for extra warmth (and protection from mosquitoes) and huddled close together. Jon, who had been dubbed the Pastor’s PA for the month was going over announcements and listing off the options for ministry the following day. “Three people for widow ministry with Dorothy…” What he said next, I have no idea, for immediately my thoughts were taken captive by another voice.
“That one”
What? Widow ministry? Why, that’s not something I’m passionate about, experienced in. .. or really qualified for. Someone else would be a better choice.
“Do that”
Well okay, but honestly God, they only need 3 people and by the time I get to the list that won’t even be an option anymore.
“Do that”
Fast forward 12 hours and I’m crammed into the backseat of a tiny car, listening to Campbell laugh as Dorothy shares her adventures with us. Beside me Emily is goofing off with the 11yr old that Dorothy brought along for the day. But just beyond the thin pane of glass lay a land dry and barren, forgotten, bleak, and void of life. The stark contrast between the life inside the car and the despair beyond was hard to grasp, but the hope remained; that perhaps today, we’d be able to share some of that life with the people of Romania.
We visited 3 houses that day, and seeing the way each woman’s face lit up as Dorothy walked in was so encouraging. For the next few hours we talked, laughed, sang songs of praise, listened to their stories, prayed for healing, and ultimately were able to leave each woman with a smile on her face and love in her heart.
Well, all except the last woman we visited. The woman we almost missed completely.
When plans changed, we found ourselves driving out to deliver a bag of clothes to a gentlemen Dorothy knew. The car stopped and as I climbed out I couldn’t help but notice the immediate change in the atmosphere. As we walked down the path, I began to turn and look into the back yard, as the dogs chased after us, barking the whole way. But then we kept going, walking passed the open yard and turning down behind the house. Hidden behind the house stood a smaller, run down building. Nearly every window was broken in, and glass crunched beneath your feet with each step you took. Broken bottles and trash were piled along the sides of the house, and the dogs that had barked at us earlier were now scurrying down the path behind me trying to bite the bottom of my skirt.
The bag of clothes were placed through the broken window onto the counter below, when no one answered Dorothy’s calls. Just as we turned to leave, a young woman appeared behind us, and once we told her why we were there, she welcomed us into the house. She was the neighbor, and had been caring for a widow that lived there, while the son was out of town.
I stepped over the broken glass and followed the team into the small bedroom, trying to ignore the stench of rotting food, flies circling overhead, and the darkness that consumed the room. I knew 2 things: 1) this wasn’t a typical house visit and 2) I was in way over my head.
Lying on a thin mattress atop an ancient looking futon was the smallest woman I have ever seen. She was bundled head to toe and buried beneath piles of blankets, with one fragile leg sticking out from beneath. She was so thin, sickly, and frail that I could have easily wrapped one hand around her leg. And that alone was worrying.
But what really grabbed my attention was the atmosphere of the room, it was dark, shadows reached out across the room, and everything I saw seemed to scream “death is near”. And as I looked upon the little widow, I found myself staring death in the face.
Suddenly she began to move, and with the help of the neighbor sat up. She locked eyes with each one of us and began to share, through translation, how depressed and lonely she was and how she’d be better off dead. Her son used to help her out of bed so she could sit outside, but it had been some time since she had left the room now that her son could no longer lift her. Her every action required assistance, and she stared out at us from her sunken in eyes.
After sharing with her, and praying for her, we had to say our goodbyes. Each one of us moved forward to give her a gentle hug and mutter goodbye in Romanian. I went up last, and as I moved to pull back she grabbed my arm and held on tight.
I’ll never forget the look in her eyes, and the quivering of her voice as she whispered the same sentence again and again. “Don’t leave, don’t leave me”. She held on tight, pulling me closer as she whispered the phrase yet again; and for the first time I understood why widow ministry was so important. And yet, here I was trying to leave.
Eventually, I managed to say “sorry” in Romanian, and pulled away. Her gaze followed me as I moved to the doorway, giving her a sad smile and whispering “sorry” once again.
The car ride back was spent in silence, as we processed all we had just encountered. But I couldn’t shake the image of the last widow’s face from my mind. From her sunken eyes, wrinkled skin, fragile body, and pleading words — I just couldn’t get her out of my head. Memories came floating back of the times I’d visit my grandmother in the nursing home. The same hopeless eyes, staring blankly at the walls. The utter despair of those not far from death’s embrace.
Before that day, I hadn’t really understood widow’s ministry, or why the bible talks about it so often (55 times to be exact). But now, it makes sense. All the women I met that day shared similar stories of loneliness, despair, and hopelessness. However it wasn’t until we met the last widow, that the urgency and need for widow’s ministry became clear.
That day, I had a chance to bring light into dark homes, to pray healing over women who slaved away to care for their children and siblings, to break bread and worship together with a woman who loved to sing. That day I got to speak Jesus’ name in the face of death.
That day I understood, and it’s changed how I face the world, and how I view ministry. Now I’m in Bulgaria; I never got to see the widow again. But I can only pray that others will continue the ministry, and will continue to bring hope and life to all of those otherwise forgotten and trapped by circumstance & condition.
If you get anything from this blog, I pray that you’ll begin to see why widow’s ministry is so important. We can’t forget those that have gone before us, those that paved the way and made our world the way it is. Everyone focuses on the children “our future”, but what about those that have created our “reality”? They deserve just as much of our attention and respect as the children do. Maybe that’s why the bible’s constantly telling us to care for the “widows & children”.
Welp, this blog is ridiculously long and if you made it this far, I feel honored. Please, seek out those widows & widowers, and spend some time with them. Remind them that they are not alone, and bring some light to their lives. We never know who already has death knocking on their doors.
-Molly
P.S If you watched this video: these are the women I visited that day.
