Dennis the Menace

We’ve made it to Europe! Hello from Romania–where the showers are hot, the drinks are cold, and water from the tap won’t give you strange diseases. We’re living at a ministry house in Dragoesti for the month, partnering with local full-time missionaries. We’ll be helping around the neighborhood with a few community service projects, bible studies, sports camps, and children’s ministries.

Earlier this week, we had the opportunity to travel to Bulgaria for a brief evangelism outing. On the Romania/Bulgaria border, there’s a Romanian-speaking community in desperate need of love-saturated truth. We handed out bibles, cd’s. and tracts to random passersby’s on the streets. In the evening, we attempted to hold a youth meeting in the park, but God had other plans for our time, as He sent rain for most of the evening. We paired off and spread throughout the city. Janell was my partner for the day, and we had a really great time loving on the locals. One encounter will forever remain in my thoughts and prayers.

We noticed him from across the street.  Probably in his mid-sixties, he resembled the stereotypical homeless man: ski hat, dirty, unkempt hair, worn out shoes, and a stained jacket. He sat alone on a bench outside the corner shop. We walked up to him and introduced ourselves. He pointed to himself, and said “Dennis”. That was all we got out of him. He didn’t speak any English….this was going to be difficult. We pulled out a Bulgarian bible, and pointed to it, trying to explain with hand gestures that we were Christians from America. He nodded to communicate his understanding. He reached for his wrist, and pushed his sleeve up to reveal a wooden charm bracelet of Jesus and the saints. Before I could glance at his bracelet on display, my gaze drifted to his forearm. When he slid his sleeve up, he revealed to us three swastika tattoos. I was shocked. I couldn’t believe what I was seeing. I pointed to the tattoo and held my hands up in the air as I asked him, “Why?”. He then took his long-sleeved t-shirt off, to show us the rest of his…collection. On his arms were tattooed Hitler’s full name and face, five swastikas, the dates of WWI, demons, and many other evil marks. He smiled as he pointed each of them out to us. And it hit me: He was proud of them. We tried to communicate with him, but the language barrier, coupled with the shock of what we were seeing, frustrated all of us. Eventually we asked him if we could pray for him. He said no, and shooed us on our way.

We made our way down the street, continuing to hand out tracts, introducing ourselves to random people. As we were speaking with a mother and her teenage daughter, Dennis came around the corner and sat on a bench a few yards from us. After Janell and I finished our conversation with the women, we decided to try and pray for Dennis one more time.

“Dennis!” I said with a smile, as if I’d known him my whole life. I held up my hand and he smiled as he returned my high-five. I pointed to the cross necklace he was wearing, and then to the Jesus charm on his wrist, as I asked one more  if I could pray for him. This time, Dennis nodded his head in agreement. Janell and I didn’t waste any time! We began to pray for a miracle. Among other things, we asked God to remove the tattoos on his arms as he slept that night-a physical cleansing to remind him of the spiritual one that awaits him. When we were finished, Dennis took his bracelet off and shoved it into my hand. I tried to give it back, but he refused. I tucked it in my bag. When I got home, I wrote the letters of his name on it, one letter on every charm. The bracelet now serves as my constant reminder to lift him up in prayer.

Dennis,
   Wherever you are, know this: God looks beyond the scars you’ve put on your arms, and sees the ones on your heart. He can heal them, if you let Him. Heaven holds a seat for you, brother. And I will pray until your very last moment that you find it.
                        Love,
                            Leslie