I never spoke to him.
His head was covered in poofy, curly white hair and he wore one of those khaki vests that I’ve seen some of my photographer friends wear. He wasn’t a photographer. He was a pastor.
Mitko was his name and he didn’t know English, but he always climbed onto the van and waited for us to load up and he drove us places. He drove us to the place where we painted trees and picked pine cones. He drove us to an orphanage where we handed out snacks to kids who were physically and mentally handicapped. He smiled a lot.
As we rode to the orphanage one day, I sat up front with Angel, our translator in Sandanski. The plan was that I’d use my reporter skills (read: nosiness) and ask questions about the church, the area, and the work they do.
When Angel talked to us about Mitko we found out that about 20 or more years ago, he’d been beaten and imprisoned for his beliefs. You’d never know it unless someone told you. How could you? He was always happy. He didn’t water down his faith. The people at these places knew him. They knew him because he was relentless in bringing Kingdom to earth as it is in heaven. He laughed with the children, he drove a bunch of loud Americans around even though he didn’t know we were coming until just a few days before. And he did it joyfully.
Hearing about his story made me wonder if I could ever have faith that strong. Would I have given up 20 years ago? Would I see bringing Kingdom as a burden?
I never spoke to him, but God used this man to make me take a long, hard look at myself.
While I was in Sandanski, I had a vision during our prayer time. It was of me worshipping God on top of a cliff.
I’m afraid of heights.
But I was on the edge, trying to get the courage to jump. Jump into God’s arms, into his presence and stay there. I’m afraid I’m becoming one of those Christians I warned myself about. You know, the kinds who actually GIVE their lives to God.
This thought may sound strange coming from someone who is traveling the world with a handful of t-shirts and a couple of pairs of jeans in order to somehow glorify my Savior, Jesus. But I want to do it. I want to jump. Like, for real–not just for 11 months.
Chances are I will never be imprisoned or beaten for my faith, but I still have fear. I have fear of man and even fear of God (and not the kind the bible speaks of). I have a fear that if I give in, I’ll be just another crazy Christian who’s lost touch with reality.
At the end of the conversation, Angel the translator told me that years later one of the men who treated Mitko badly during those years called for him when he was on his death bed. He asked Mitko to pray for him. Angel said, “The people who beat him and imprisoned him respect him. They know he is an honest man.”
That statement was the push I needed to take the jump off of the cliff.
I am (officially) one of those crazy Christians I warned myself about.
