I never quite feel like I am prepared to write a blog. I sit down with my computer in my lap to write one and all of the experiences I have had seem to fall out my ear and into a gooey pile on the floor, one resembling a smashed egg or a rotten tomato.
I have all these ideas of what a cool blog should be like – like the first World Race blog I ever read, which was about a racer helping a woman give birth in the middle of the night, the day before leaving for their next country. I sit at my keyboard and think, “Well, didn’t help anyone give birth recently. My life is the most boring.”
Throughout the first two months I have these weird hyper-lucid moments where everything becomes really sharp and clear and I stand in place, staring dumbly at a tree branch or an outhouse or a stray cat. And in these times I have a thought: “I am in Moldova.”
Like, seriously, Moldova, right? Did you even know that was a country? I sort of did. I can remember learning about it in sixth grade. We had a substitute teacher for history class and we were learning the geography of Eastern Europe, which I am sure has changed since 1998 or whenever it was I was sitting in the basement of Trader’s Point Christian Academy looking at poorly drawn maps of foreign countries.
There was absolutely no way that, as an eleven year old, I could have known that I would be in Moldova. Heck, even five months ago I couldn’t have known that I would be in Moldova. But that’s the beauty of God’s kingdom: he takes you where he wills.
Think about your life: are you better for not having visited Moldova? Probably. It’s poor. It’s cold. People burn their trash in the streets. Every other person you see after dark is probably inebriated, drowning their reality in the bottle that takes them away from how much they hate this country.
I was on a grocery run a few nights ago to get chips and bread for a team meeting we were about to have. I walked into our little market by our house and while Jack and Spencer obtained the vittles, I was ushered into a seat by three men speaking Russian and extremely bad English, urging me to drink vodka with them. They called me brother and asked me how I liked Moldova. I told them I loved it, because, to be honest, I really do. I love Moldova because it reminds me of home in some ways – cold in the fall, lots of trees, clear skies.
But when I told them this, they balked, wondering how I might possibly love this place. They hated it, indicating this to me by crossing their arms over each other in an X sign across their chest. Our contact told us that most men of age like to go to Russia, work for a few months and make a lot of money, then come back to their homes in Moldova and drink and party away their earnings. This cycle continues until they get a wife and kids (and sometimes after) or until they get tired of it or die.
And it struck me how much this country is hurting – it’s own sons and daughters hate it. They don’t love the country of Moldova. But I love it, and the other reason that I love Moldova is because Jesus loves Moldova. It’s small, insignificant, the EU doesn’t want it around, it has little to offer a struggling world economy. But God’s economy loves places like Moldova, and loves the drunks, and loves the illegitimate and abandoned children, and loves the astrologists and witch doctors searching for meaning in stars and tealeaves when there is so much meaning staring them in the face.
One last story: I went to a Russian bath last night with the guys and our contact Andrei. With us were some of his friends: Dennis, Artiom, and Ilyusha. “Russian bath” is a cruel misnomer for “sweat in a sauna and then jump in freezing cold Moldavian creek,” but we enjoyed it, as it was our “shower” for the week. At one point, as the sweat dripped down our backs and chests and onto the floorboards below us, I asked Andrei if he had any songs to teach us. He sang a simple refrain and we repeated it, stumbling over the unfamiliar Russian words: “Sing alleluia to the Lord; Lord, deliver us from bondage.”
And it was a fun song, and good to learn, and we smiled and laughed and moved on, but Ilyusha, every time there was a moment of silence, would hum it or sing it again. His face, the most amazing fulfillment of a stereotype of a Russian man I could ever hope for, beamed as he sang. He loves Jesus, and he loves singing alleluia to the Lord, and asking the Lord to deliver his beloved country from bondage.
Pray for Moldova. Pray for our last few days here. But what’s more, pray for more people like Ilyusha, who love Jesus and who love Moldova
