As I sit here and write this, my mind is elsewhere. I am surrounded by my squad and teammates as we gobble up the free wi-fi at the McDonald’s in the Bucharest Train Station. American pop music pulses in the hip, modern environment characterized by trendy young Romanians chattering away on cell phones and the familiar, computerized diddy of laptops being booted up.
And yet, walk through the motion-sensored door to the bustle of the train station and you will see a whole new Romania. Dingy stores and open brown halls are home to pigeons and even people. Grit and grime welcome our travel-weary bodies as we curl up in dirty corners with all our earthly possessions, hoping for an opportunity to gather our thoughts before embarking on the next journey: Bulgaria.
No more than half an hour ago, as my team and squadmates settled onto the dirty floors of the train station, preparing to wait out the next few hours until our 8pm train ride to Bulgaria, we had a ministry moment. While in Arad, it seemed that many times we were brought to the fact that as Jesus was on His way to ministry, this was the time that He had so many healing interactions. In Mark 5, when Jesus was going to heal the synagogue ruler’s sick daughter, the woman that had suffered from bleeding for twelve years touched his garment and was healed. There were many other examples that we looked at in Romania, and one thing seemed to stick out for us: Much of the power we associate with Jesus ministry didn’t necessarily happen at his destination, but rather, on his way.
So today, as we sit and prepare to stare the clock down ’til 8pm, a man comes and sits down right in front of us. It is obvious that he is not completely in his right mind. He is an older Gypsy man in dirty clothes and a talkative disposition. For a while, he sits and talks endlessly in Romanian as we just sit and let him talk. We learn that his name is Nickolai.
As time goes by, we begin to pass our food around and offer him a cookie. He gratefully takes it, and begins to open up more to us. Despite the fact that we know only a few words in Romanian between the many of us, we try to communicate. He signals to us that he is thirsty, so Don gives him the Coke he bought for his own lunch. Anthony walks over and sits down next to him, communicating with him through hand motions and a few familiar cognates of Romanian and English. Anthony learns that he was beaten by the police and refused entrance to a hospital because he is Gypsy.
To our horror, he corroborates his story by rolling up his pant leg, revealing a swollen deformity wrapped only in dirty newspaper and the greasy top of a KFC bucket. As he pulls the trash away, we are staring face-to-face with infection and forming gangrene in it’s nastiest manifestation.
My heart begins to crack. How on planet earth can something like this happen? How can a man have such a severe need and be denied any kind of help, either because he is poor, homeless, or mentally ill? How, in 2009, can he be denied help due to his ethnicity?
We spring into action immediately, yet aware we can’t really do anything. I pull out the First Aid Kit that magically found it’s way to us (Our contact, Paula, brought it back to us in Brasov, though no one had ever seen it before) and begin to pull out all the disinfecting wipes I can find. Anthony runs to the nearest Pharmacy to try and find something better. With little luck on both of our ends, we’re faced with a grim and devestating reality: We are a group of Americans with no money who can’t speak Romanian, trying to prevent gangrene with Neosporin.
We sit and begin to talk to him, showing him how to clean his decaying leg. As we talk and show him care, his attitude begins to change drastically. He goes from talking in blabbers and circles to listening and responding in a gentle manner. We debate on what the best thing to do is. Even though we have team members like Ashlee who have medical knowledge, our attempts seem little more than incredibly futile.
My heart starts to buckle again as I watch him remove the disinfectant wipe from his wound and begin to wipe the dirt caked into every crevice of his face. God, when was the last time he had the means to be clean?
The Holy Spirit was moving in our midst. Nickolai laid his face into the disinfecting wipe as we laid our hands on him.
And there, in the middle of a dirty floor in an ancient train station, we implored God to bring His healing.
Colin prayed. Anthony prayed. Then Ashlee. Katie. Don. Marissa. Me.
As I prayed, I felt the Spirit sweep over me and I began to cry. Tears ran down my face as I realized just how much Jesus loves Nickolai. How much Jesus wants him to know that He does. How much He wants to heal Nickolai’s heart and mind.
And even though I think I had more faith for physical healing than I have ever had, the Spirit led me to pray for his understanding of God, and that the Spirit would move through him, showing him an understanding of who He is and how He loves.
When we finished praying, I opened my eyes to a much different man than I had seen half an hour earlier. Where chaos of mind once ruled, I saw a Child of God, loved, wiping his tears with a disinfectant wipe that was meant to bring healing to his leg.
And how it hits me.
We wanted to bring him physical healing. Even though I run the risk of sounding insensitive, I believe he found much more. Jesus said, “It is better for you to enter the Kingdom of God with one eye or one hand than to be thrown wholly into the fire.”
As his tears ran, he grabbed my hands and kissed them so gently, as if they were precious. My heart shattered. How could my hands – hands that only provided baby wipes, antibiotic ointment, and love – be so precious to anyone?
I sat for a long time afterwards, allowing him to talk and talk and talk. I asked God to let me understand his words, but I know why He didn’t. Even though my ears and mind didn’t comprehend, my heart knew every word. How many times have I wanted to tell someone all my pain and my hurts, but didn’t because I convinced myself they weren’t worth caring for? And yet, what if I desperately wanted to let it all out, and couldn’t by virtue of the fact that no one was willing to listen?
So we continued to cry together, a young American girl and an old Gypsy man, listening with God’s ears and bringing healing through tears.
