Easter Sunday is one of those days of great expectations and usually greater letdowns. In my family, it usually starts a few days before with Easter dress shopping with Grandma, possibly remembering the Crucifixion on Friday, running around like headless chickens, late for church and the family gathering after. Yes, there are moments of serious reflections, but most of the day is spent in chaos, greeting hundreds of people and playing in a yard with kids.
Easter Sunday on the Race, in Moldova, was a little different. There were no new dresses (there haven't been new clothes for months- I might possibly be going a little nuts) but we still ran around the tiny apartment, yelling about being late for church as the boys buttoned their shirts and the girls applied yet another layer of mascara. Eventually, though, we got out the door and walked up the muddy path to the church on the top of the hill, a fitting portrait of our ascent to heaven- through neighborhoods ringing with laughter as families gathered, over a bridge that crossed a deep river, and up steep stone steps to the building that offers an unshakeable hope to its community.
There’s something you need to know about Moldova: women aren’t allowed to preach. Our guys had really been stepping it up, preaching again and again and again as they also led worship and as I tried to rope them into being children’s pastors, too (look, it’s important). But, women are allowed to give testimonies, and as the music faded and the congregation sat down, up to the front walked Princessa Natasha, long, modest skirt swishing over black boots covering feet ready to preach the Gospel of peace.
I was psyched when they first asked if I would speak, because I had every intention of sharing the Gospel. What better day to talk about the message “that Christ died for our sins according to Scriptures, that He was buried, that He was raised on the third day according to the Scriptures, and that He appeared to Peter, and then to the Twelve…” [1 Corinthians 15:3-5] than Easter Sunday, the actual day we celebrate our new life in Christ? But women in Moldova aren’t allowed to preach, and I found out later that night that they wanted me to share my testimony, the same testimony that had driven people to tears just days before.
I don’t like sadness. I don’t like pain. I don’t like seeing hurt or admitting that I’m hurting. In my idea of a perfect world, everyone smiles all the time because there’s nothing to be upset about. I had never shared my story in a way that focused on the pain before, and sharing it that way was weird because I was able to see that there was more to my life than daisies and butterflies, and I had actually survived an intense few years and could now speak truth because I had lived it. That night, as I was wrestling with sharing that version of my story to a crowd of strangers (who don’t even speak English!), I listened to music from those days and reread the Scriptures that had sustained me through the long, sleepless nights and even longer, tear- filled days. Before I knew it, on the floor of the living room where my whole team was just chilling, I was crying over my Bible- not necessarily tears of sadness, but tears of restoration, looking back at all of the ways God had redeemed all of the pain and used it for His glory- just like He promises He will.
The only certainty in life is struggle, but the promise of God is peace in the midst of the storm and the hope of future glory. As I wrestled through these lessons, even the ones from years ago, I had to experience some of the pain again, and it was in that moment that I was able to do something I naturally shy away from: receive comfort. One teammate came up and just prayed for me. Our translator tried to explain why painful stories were powerful. But the best (and perhaps most surprising) moment of comfort was when one of them invited me to come put my head on his shoulder and gave me silly Bible verses, taken out of context and used as inside jokes. As the tears stopped and I could speak normally again, he carefully moved the conversation to the serious, letting me process but also challenging me with questions and speculations about the nature of God and His creation.
The old Natalie would never allow herself to look weak in front of her team and would never rest her tear covered face on someone’s shoulder. She would suck it up and if absolutely necessary retreat to a solitary place where no one could hear her stifled sobs. But Natalie who has been redeemed, who is growing every day to be more like Christ, is learning that part of community is brokenness, and part of brokenness is allowing people to be there each other.
As I stood in front of the congregation (two churches back to back, actually), I stood before them as a woman who had seen pain, who had experienced brokenness, who had walked the valley of the shadow of death and who had learned not only to rely on God, but to allow herself to be vulnerable enough to rely on people, and who was now able to stand before a crowd and remind them that “we have this hope as the anchor for the soul, firm and secure [Hebrews 6:19].
Being a Christian doesn’t promise us a life free of sorrow, but in sending the Holy Spirit, God does promise us peace and purpose throughout the storms. That’s the Gospel of peace, and that’s what I stood boldly before Moldova and spoke of on that surreal Easter Sunday on the Race.
the four girls looking out over the Black Sea
