Adventures WorldRace SethBarnes Sponsorship Giving

| by archiveworldraceblogs

The first image I have of my time here in Eastern Europe wrecked my life.

…I was sitting with my team and all of our packs on the cold cement floor of a train station, after approximately 129 hours of travel from Nicaragua to Romania. We had been wearing the same clothes for days, hadn't showered, hadn't slept for most of those 129 hours, and were freezing because of our lack of cold-weather clothing. Most of us were shamelessly dozing off on top of our packs right in the middle of the train station, much to the dismay of all who passed by, judging by their looks of disapproval.

I wasn't in Central America anymore.

I began to take in everything around me, and came up with a list of observations about my new home continent for the next 2 months. 

1. It was cold and gray (I hate the cold…and gloom in general)
2. People did NOT smile at us…or at anyone, really (I can't help but smile, always)
3. I could not speak one word of the language (my Spanish is pretty decent, and I had been able to use it every day for the past 3 months)
4. Even if I did know the language, people definitely didn't seem to want to talk to me anyways (& I really, really love to talk to people)
5. I stuck out like a sore thumb (Europeans are really quite fashionable, and I looked like a homeless drifter living out of a backpack….which I guess, in a sense, I kind of am)

I missed the vivid smells, colors and sounds of Central America. I missed the lively, open nature of the Latin people. I missed hearing and speaking Spanish. I missed the sunshine and the atmosphere. I missed feeling like I belonged.

To be honest…I was ready to turn around and head 129 hours right back to where I came from. 

And then…I saw him. A dirty, brown face…a tiny, skinny child with holes in his clothes, digging through the trashcans nearby. He had the biggest brown eyes I've ever seen. And he seemed to be all alone. I watched him until I couldn't take it anymore, and then waved him over. I opened my mouth to talk to him, and suddenly remembered I had no knowledge of Romanian, and no translator. Frustration welled in my spirit. I wanted to know where his parents were. If he was hungry. If he was scared. I wanted to take him and buy him food, but every freakin European ATM refused my card. (Europe was determined to make things hard on me, it seemed).

So I did all I knew how to do. I talked to him (at him might be more accurate). I gave him the candy I had in my backpack. I made him smile and laugh and tried to communicate via sign language. He left for a while and eventually returned with a woman I assumed to be his mother, who was clearly a gypsy judging by her colorful outfit and scarves. She was pregnant, and although I can't speak Romanian, I knew she was asking me for money. I also knew at this point I had pissed off many of the nearby Romanian people, who hate gypsies, and probably some of my squadmates as well. But all I could see was the face of a tiny little gypsy boy. All I could feel was my heart breaking.

I had no money to give. No message I could communicate with words. I gave them all I knew how to give, and then I had to leave them, to move forward and figure out what the hell I was supposed to be doing on this continent, a place where I strongly felt the only commonality was the color of my skin.

I moved on to the tiny village of Sistarovitch, Romania (population<250) to do manual labor and maitenance at a summer camp for the month of October, which, by the way, was devoid of campers…it being winter and all. Another strike, Europe. After an incredible month of ministry and relationships in Nicaragua, i'm supposed to spend an entire month cleaning house and chopping wood? In a culture I am completely failing to relate to?  

I started asking God for answers.

And my answer came through an image that has filled my mind and heart every day I've spent here… an image of a little gypsy boy, digging through the trash…and when I see him, I feel my heart breaking and expanding for a people and for a region I don't even know how to begin to relate to.

 
Opening my heart to Europe has been an interesting process, really. Because, you see…I had determined in the beginning that I would enjoy Eastern Europe. I would appreciate it's unique beauty. I would work hard and take advantage of every opportunity possible. It's Europe, after all.
 
…But I would not fall in love with it. I would not. It was just not in the realm of possibility.

But everywhere I go, everywhere I look, in everything I experience…I see the face of a little gypsy boy, and my heart aches to love these people in the way the Father loves them.

The "breaking and expanding" process over the past 2 months has gone a little like this:
 
My Romanian friend looking at the ground and saying he doesn't trust people…that Romanians don't trust people. Seeing the hurt in his eyes from betrayals of the past, and the walls that have closed him from the world…and fighting like hell to break them down.

Seeing a young girl about my age in a food court, trying to scavenge from the leftovers people were throwing away. Sitting with her, attempting Romanian, sharing cake and coke with her, holding her hand to pray with her…and letting her know she wasn't alone.
 
Sitting at the highest point of Brasov, Romania during debrief with my 2 closest sisters, looking out in silence over the insanely breathtaking view, and feeling the weight of the glory and love of God for His city and His people.
 
Moving on to Moldova, the so called "Africa of Europe"and being wholeheartedly received by our contact, Catholic priest Padre Daniel. Learning the struggles of Moldovan village life, a part of Europe that remains widely unknown by the rest of the world.
 
Visiting, assisting, and praying for those who are paralyzed or bedridden, seeing their joy at our arrival, and their pain at our departure and the prospect of being left alone again.
…holding the mother of a young, paralyzed girl as she wept.
 
Getting to know the nuns at the local convent, who took us in mutliple times to cook for us and spend time with us, to teach us about their way of life and to learn about ours.
 
Arriving in the capital of Moldova and moving into apartments with the staff of Campus Crusade, girls my age who have treated me like family. Encouraging and being encouraged by the strength of their faith.
 
Sitting in my classroom of 20 high school and university students who I am teaching advanced English to for the rest of this month, seeing their eagerness to learn and their hunger for something more…seeing them experience revelation of the truth of Jesus, even though that is not exactly what they signed up for. Building relationships with them over coffee, hearing their hearts, and sharing my faith and experiences with them. 

I say all this to say… that's it.
I give up, Europe.

I have fought a long, hard battle the past 2 months…but you win. You have my heart. When I think of you, I think of the dirty face of a small gypsy boy, and I can't help but love you. I can't help but be broken for you. I can't erase you from my mind. I can't move foward from here and pretend you never happened. The Father loves you. We didn't always see eye to eye…but you are the apple of our heavenly Father's eye. You presented me a difficult season, but I say yes and amen to you. I understand why we had this time together. 

…You have forever changed me.