Today I will board a plane destine for Romania. My three months in Africa will come to a close and a new chapter will begin; sort of.
You see, I've been to Romania before. And, if I am honest, I was a little disappointed to learn that is where I will be returning. It is not totally about wanting all new passport stamps, though the thought does skirt through my mind. Rather it is about my memories of Romania.
It was ten, no, eleven years ago when I caught my first look at Nadia Comăneci blessed home land. Oh how excited I was to be on her turf. I idolized her in third grade. My best friend and I could reenact the entire "Best Friend" gymnastic routine in the movie. Alas, I never made it to Bucharest or a gym full of talented girls doing flip flops. My trip took me northwest of the capitol to a land where children are forgotten, left to fend for themselves.
It was rough watching them swarm into the soup kitchen. There hands, oh man, their hands were covered with sores like I had never seen before. I didn't want to touch them. In fact, I remember going out of my way not to touch them. And their eyes; glassy, void of life, succumbing to the glue they were all high on.
An entire community of children cast off by society. Even adults in positions of authority misused them because they had been abandoned and thus they had no more value than stray dogs. Frankly, stray dogs had it better. So they turned to one another. Living in the abandoned railway cars they managed to establish community. The older kids were the "bosses" and the little kids reported to them. Whatever the little ones were able to bring in from begging or stealing the older ones would keep or redistribute as they saw fit.
I lived with a full time missionary couple from Scotland, with two kids of their own, and eight orphans girls from the railcar community. These girls had expressed interested in being apart of their family and after the rules were laid out they were taken in as family. Our house was small, only five rooms (master bedroom, living room, kitchen, girls room, bathroom and a cupboard/pantry that had been turned into their sons room). We slept on the floor of the girls room. I recall waking some evenings to a girl whimpering/crying in her sleep. Early on I had the gumption to ask one little ones story. I'll save us all the details but that trip opened my eyes to how quickly we as humans will sell one another out for our own gain. No wonder she was crying.
I was violently ill the day we left but you could not have persuaded me to stay, I was ready to get out of the forsaken country. I didn't like the reality that I was there to bring "Gods love" to people I couldn't stand to touch. Isn't touch so much what the ostracized need? I didn't want to shudder one more time in the darkness of night wondering what these little ones were having to relive in their subconscious.
As I gather myself to go back these are the thoughts that fill my mind. Of course, I know I am going to a different city, a different ministry, a different everything. The experience will be different. What I/we can not change are my memories. The hurt that I have tucked away but that stirs below the surface. At the very least I can channel the memories into resolve. Resolve to do "Gods love" better this time.
I welcome your prayers for safe travels and for boldness in whatever awaits as I return to Romania.
PS: We have arrived safe. It is cold and Rebeca has written a wonderful blog on the journey; check it out!
http://rebeccawells.theworldrace.org/?filename=last-summer-was-yesterday
