As a resource for World Racers, the administrative team created something called the Log, an online system where Racers from different squads can enter country specific information. Various categories include lodging, transportation, ministry, hosts, food, and safety.
When I read the Log for Draganesti-Olt, Romania, one post struck me. Next to a picture of a sinister-looking manor, it said, “You need not fear this house, but I would recommend walking on the other side of the street when the gate is open. The dogs will come out and start barking. If you look at them by mistake, they will come after you. I was chased twice and my friend’s skirt got bit three times. Perhaps you could prayer walk for the people living here.”
During the month, I passed this house multiple times every day. I longed to get to know the Roma (Gypsy) people who lived there. I always felt an urge to pray for their residents, so I did on a daily basis. Sometimes, we would greet each other with the typical Romanian phrase, “Boona,” meaning “Good,” but nothing more.
A few days ago, I finished a typical day of ministry. I made a handout containing information and prayer requests for Hope Church and filled 40 bags of dry goods to hand out to widows in the community. I organized hundreds of gigabytes of documents, pictures, and videos that were spread out among six USBs. However, as I left the church to walk home, I felt that I had forgotten something or had something left to do. Through prayer, I sensed that God wanted me to be involved with the locals. I didn’t know what that meant, so I planned on just playing with some of the street kids.
On my way home I saw my teammate, Lucie, walking in the opposite direction to the Penny Market. I joined her and told her what I was feeling. She said that she had seen a woman dancing in the street in front of the Gypsy house. Clad in a wig, dress, and heavy makeup, the woman performed in front of a group of onlookers. Lucie felt that she needed to go back with someone, lay hands on everyone in the group, and bless them in Jesus’ name. We agreed that God had something in store for us that night.
After shopping, we headed home to eat dinner. While passing the house, a few women sitting on a bench gestured us to eat some of their food. We chatted a bit over the lamb and cheese they offered us, and they introduced us to their kids. They didn’t speak English, so it was primarily acting things out and laughing.
Lucie and I waved goodbye, ate our dinner at home, and filled a plate with pancakes, sausages, and chocolate spread to give the Gypsies. When we approached them, the woman who had been dancing earlier snatched the food and shoved it into her mouth. Through stuffed cheeks, she thanked us and motioned us to dance.
To a background of pounding Indian music, we began dancing together with her kids who were three, seven, and nine. The boys had food-smeared faces, dirt-smudged bodies, and ragged clothes. She donned a long black dress with large red roses blotched across the fabric. Her shoulders bared, she swayed confidently in very tall, clear plastic heels.
With gleaming eyes, blue painted eyebrows, and a glinting gold tooth, she invited us into the bar she owned. Even though it didn’t open until later, we obliged to infiltrate such a mysterious property. She put her thin, very strong, arms around us and led us through the enormous iron gate to a small building next to the manor.
She unlocked the door, switched on the multicolored lights, and turned up the music to a deafening volume. The green and pink glow revealed plush chairs and sofas, a large table, and a bar. Dramatically sweeping her arm around the room, she bragged about the gold embedded in her walls and dishes. She summoned some younger women in skirts and gold headbands to pour us a citrus juice in glass goblets. Then she commanded us to dance. I have a difficult time resisting dancing when there’s loud, charged music pulsing through my ears. Hence, Lucie and I danced.
It was fun at first, but then the woman became very aggressive. She demanded that we dance on chairs placed in front of the transparent door leading to the street. Any time we moved to the side or started playing with her kids, her pointed eyebrows would draw darkly and she would yell for us to move to the center and give the kids to someone else.
At one point her oldest son pleaded to have one of her cigarettes and she chucked a box of matches at him, striking his cheek. I tried to get the middle son to dance with us, but he would say no by wagging his finger and glancing nervously at his mom. When she left to smoke, he started thrusting and mimicking slapping butts and throwing out money. It was heart-breaking.
The Gypsy woman clapped, shouted, and whistled a piercing sound like a fire alarm. She moved sexually, desiring us to imitate her. Sometimes, she flipped up our flowy shirts to expose our stomachs. It was clear that she was trying to entice people on the streets to come in.
We tried to avoid the trap as best as we could by taking control of the situation. If the woman pulled me onto a chair, Lucie would stand in front of the door with one of the kids to block the street view. Because the music was so loud, we yelled the name of Jesus and proclaimed His Presence into the bar. We screamed prayers over them and their household. Lucie placed her hand on the seven-year-old’s head and prayed over him. Afterward, he buried his head in his hands and blinked over and over.
Lucie took the youngest kid outside in her arms and prayed fiercely over him. She cast out evil spirits and made strong declarations over him: “Your life belongs to God. You will rise up as a leader. You will walk in freedom. Nothing formed against you will stand. You are delivered.” I looked over and saw him lying stiff in her arms, wide-eyed and open-mouthed. He was frozen in that position for a couple minutes and then continuously spit on the ground.
The women tied long skirts around our waists and ordered us to dance in front of a group of men that entered suddenly. We told them we needed to go, but the woman refused and continued to pull us forcefully in front of the door. Eventually, she gave in and led us outside. Under her grip once again, we crossed the threshold in the dark as she hissed at the vicious dogs. We thanked her, said goodbye, and walked home praying out loud the entire way to proclaim victory over that space.
I don’t really know what to make of this intense night in a Gypsy bar, but I do know that God wants that entire household to know Him. When praying, God gave me the story of the fortune teller in Acts 16. Please pray for this woman, her family, and all of her friends to repent from evil and turn toward the light of Christ.
I know this is a long post, but I felt that this experience warranted a detailed description. Our squad has a couple intense travel days coming up. We sleep overnight in two airports, Bucharest and Addis Ababa, on our way to our ministry sites in Ethiopia. Thanks for your support as I head into the last continent of this Race!
