I haven’t blogged in so long. There are a lot of things I’d like to write about, but sometimes my mind is so overloaded with experiences and revelations, that I avoid writing all together.
A few days ago, I started a blog about worldview. But the words weren’t coming out right… because there are so many other things I want to tell you.
I want to tell you about the Gypsy village we visited in Romania—about the little girl I prayed over because a rat attacked her while she was sleeping and put gashes in her face. I want to tell you about the beautiful old lady who wore a white blouse. She had high cheekbones and the most piercing blue eyes. She welcomed us into her home. There was only one room. It was like a box. There was a bed and a couch and a small refrigerator. And she raised 12 children there.
I want to tell you about singing songs in that home with at least 20 Gypsy children. I want to tell you about walking through the streets, our fingers interlocked with theirs. I want to tell you about how happy they were, about how much they laughed, and about how proud they were to be walking with us.
I want to tell you about how some of the little girls didn’t have on pants. I want to tell you about how some of them had body piercings. I want to tell you about how many of the men end up in jail, and about how many of the women become prostitutes.
I want to tell you about the special needs Gypsy woman we met… She was around my age, but she moved like a child. She was dark-skinned and tall and beautiful. Her hair was short, and dark curls fell over her eyes. And she smiled a lot. She stood behind her mother’s shoulder, holding her hand and curiously examining us. Her tight clothes showed off her body… and I want to tell you why that made me sad.
I want to tell you that she has a 3-month old baby. And I want to tell you that her family doesn’t know who the father is, because she’s mentally handicapped and can’t remember which man in the village took advantage of her.
I want to tell you about the little Gypsy girl who asked for my half-full bottle of green tea. And I want to tell you about her thrilled expression when I gave it to her.
I want to tell you about how genuine love changes things.
I want to tell you about Larissa, the 14-year old Romanian girl who served us in Bacea. I want to tell you about how this child spent her spring break cooking food for us and maintaining the furnaces in our rooms.
I want to tell you about the time she brought us a chocolate bar. And about how she ran out of our room giggling.
I want to tell you about visiting her house the next week. I want to tell you that her mother has cancer. And I want to tell you about her three siblings—her two sisters and baby brother. I want to paint a picture of what their home looks like—a home that isn't even theirs. They rent two rooms in someone else's house.
I want to tell you about how I’d come to love this girl. And about how my heart broke when I saw the poverty she lived in—when I saw how frail her mother was. My heart broke when I looked around and didn’t see her father, because her father probably works all the time to earn less than $200 a month.
I want to tell you how I tried to remove any traces of pity from my face. Because the truth is, I shouldn’t pity Larissa. Larissa is overflowing with joy and service and love. It’s as if she’s tapped into a limitless supply of all of those things.
I want to tell you about how we sang for her family and prayed for them. And I want to tell you about how we said goodbye them, then God commanded me to speak. About how He told me to tell her mother that He promised to show me Ephesians 3:16-19 this year… and about how He did that through Larissa.
I want to tell you how broken I was in that moment. And I want to tell you about how my brokenness manifested itself physically. It was the first time, in a long time, that I uncontrollably wept.
I want to tell you how Larissa convicted me. I want to tell you how this girl, who has nothing, gives everything. And I want to tell you how I realized that for the majority of my life, I’ve had everything… and have given basically nothing.
I want to tell you about Ioan. About this 22 year-old guy who drifts through life with the kind of contentedness I’ve been looking for all my life.
I want to tell you about Marius. About this missionary who gave up a professional soccer career and dedicated his life to Jesus. I want to tell you about his family of seven. I want to tell you about his beautiful wife and his five beyond incredible children. I want to tell you how he directs all praise and glory to the rightful owner.
I want to tell you about Mihai and Vio. About these pastors who walked away from comfort and status and success. I want to tell you about how they don’t worry about anything. I want to tell you about how they trust God—with everything. I want to tell you about the time Mihai drove a car 80 kilometers without gas. And I want to tell you how Vio is adamant that God will always provide for his family.
I want to tell you about Marynella and Marta and Monica and Ioanna. I want to tell you about how they served us. I want to tell you about how they enjoy life in a small village.
I want to tell you about Elias. About how he drives like a maniac. And about how his middle name is Spontaneity. I want to tell you that we all could benefit from living more like him. We should pet sheep if a herd passes us by. We should climb mountains, or run up them, at random. And we should buy cappuccinos for strangers.
I want to tell you about Ovidiu. About how he laughs at everything—even himself. I want to tell you about Beni. I want to tell you about Radu. I want to tell you about Ingrid. I want to tell you about eating four pieces of cake in an hour and nine minutes.
I want to tell you about Brasov. I want to tell you about how much I love Romania. And I want to tell you about our train rides to L’viv.
I want to tell you about the lady who got upset with me because I was sitting on the floor in the train station. I want to tell you that she thought I was harming my unborn children. I want to tell you that Ukrainians are superstitious. And that they think sitting on cold floors causes infertility. I want to tell you about why that makes me laugh and think. About why that makes me consider my own culture and worldview and beliefs.
I want to tell you about our American ministry contacts. I want to tell you about these people from Texas who left America 21 years ago and moved to Ukraine. I want to tell you about how God instructed them to build a house in a rural village. And about how they’ve dedicated their lives to serving Soviet Jews. All because God told them to.
I want to tell you all of these things. But the weeks are flying by, and life is happening faster than I can type. But know that I am well. Europe is teaching me a great deal about trust and guidance and mercy.
I think of many of you often. As your faces flash behind my eyes, I pray these things: 1) Remember that God is working, both here and there, 2) Remember to open your hearts—to the Gypsies and the Larissas and the Ioans of the world, and 3) Remember to be in your life… wherever that may be.
Love,
Julie
