What do you do when you love someone so much it hurts? I wish you could meet Denisa. I need to tell you about her, but never have I felt words could do so little to describe a person. So all I know that I can do is tell you about my experiences with this woman, and trust that the Lord will reveal her heart to you like He revealed it to me.
When I met Denisa, I didn’t think we could ever be friends. Less than 5 feet tall, with a slender athletic frame, her stature belies her huge attitude. Dressed like a boy, her super short dark hair hung in a few loose curls around her freckled cheekbones, and her dark eyes judged the American girls with mocking amusment. Just as intrigued as the other girls by our group, her presence was made known by poking fun at us and making jokes loudly, usually at our expense. And yet I was drawn to her. The very prickles that were meant to keep people away from her drew me to her. And I discovered that was just the start.
She soon discovered that I could dish out some good teasing back at her, and after a few days I was her favorite because I was “more fun, ” though she denied it to my face. Our friendship was never simple, it never could be. Some moments, we were best friends. We walked around town on the dirt roads, kicking up pebbles and bumping each other into fences. Once she stole a rose from the neighbor’s yard to give to me, shrugging off my scolding and chuckling as I sniffed the sweet aroma of the flower; her vehement dislike for the scent prompted me to place it in front of her nose as much as I could even as she dodged the smell with laughter. She introduced me to the Romanian fruit Gutuya, marveling that we didn’t have it in the States and finding my response to the sour, apple-like fruit very amusing
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And yet other times, she pushed me away from her. Sometimes when I saw her in the morning, she wouldn’t even respond to my greeting, walking past me with barely a grunt. Somedays, teasing her produced glares and mumbled Romanian, saying she didn’t feel like it. I never knew what mood she would be in, and every morning I walked into our ministry site wondering if we were friends that day. The way she ended conversations was by walking away; if she got bored or lost interest in whatever activity was at hand, she just went to bed. She slept most afternoons. It felt like walking on eggshells at all times.
But for some reason, it was worth it. I was very confused about our relationship and what God wanted me to do, but I knew this was important. I knew I couldn’t be repulsed by her rough nature and tough exterior, cause there was something more. I knew enough about the women at the shelter to guess the rough nature of her past, and I knew very few people had ever really loved her. The only thing I knew was that I was supposed to pursue her and love her. No matter how she responded, I needed to LOVE her.
One afternoon, she let me have a glimpse of her past. We sat on the bed in her tiny living space, and as she spoke through broken English and struggles with vocabulary she shared what she could. Kicked out of the state orphanage when she was too old, she lived on the streets with several of the other girls that are now at the shelter with her. Drugs, theft and prison have all been participants in her past. She rolled up her sleeves to show me track marks and other scars on her brown arms. As she tried to explain the other scars, Denisa said, “She cut,” motioning in a slicing motion across her forarm. I thought she meant that another girl cut her in a street fight, but Denisa shook her head. Pointing to herself, she said, “No, no, SHE.” I knew many of the girls had histories of cutting and suicide attempts, I had seen the scars, but to imagine crazy, tough Denisa doing that to herself broke my heart. She told her story with such nonchalant shrugs and I wanted to cry. What other pain had she gone through? I later found out that she was a twin, given up at birth though they kept her twin brother. She had been taught all her life that she was not wanted, not desired, not loved.
As part of our ministry one day we threw a birthday party for the girls, just to love on them and give them a fun time. All of the girls were rowdy and loud, alternating between chattering in excitement and yelling in anger over some supposed slight, fights and competition constantly flaring up all over. Denisa and her loud voice was among the more vocal, laughing and competitive, refusing to listen to instruction. When she was told to sit out of the game because of her lack of obedience, she fussed and didn’t want to listen, but when one of the men visiting the center put his arm around her and held her, trying to calm her down, she went out of control. She broke free and crossed the room, yelling and cursing in Romanian, fire shooting out her eyes and anger seeping out of every pore. She exuded hatred for everything and everyone. After awhile she disappeared, when I followed her to her room she sullenly let me in and sat on her bed behind the door. Before too long, I could hear her sniffling. I knelt on the floor beside her and when she didn’t respond to my enquires, just sat in silence. Tears continued to well up and pour down her dark skin, though her eyes rarely left mine. Finally she spoke, sorrow and curiousity outweighing any hostility in her question.
“Why are you still here?”
“Because I love you,” was my response. What more could I do? Nothing more could help. Though capable of caring for herself mentally and physically, emotionally she was scarred and fearful, it took nothing for her to become defensive, accusitory and distrustful. God showed me her heart, and mine broke for her. So many scars were there, so much pain, so much hurt, warring with the love she had. She constantly scolded me for the littlest things: a dirty jacket or no gloves to keep my hands warm prompted her to wash my clothes for me or rub my hands to warm them up. She was made to love, but her fear kept her from letting people in.
The last day we were at ministry was so hard. I didn’t want to say goodbye. I didn’t know HOW to say goodbye. I didn’t know what to expect; many of the girls would say hurtful things to visitors when they left, responding to the supposed abandonment in anger and frustration. I didn’t know what Denisa would say. When the time was drawing near for us to leave, I was sitting in a chair as she stood nearby. Both of us knew, but we just looked at each other. She gave me a little shrug, as if to say: “We both know what is happening soon.” We joked about the music playing and she made fun of my dance moves. At one point when I was looking away, she came up behind me and wrapping her arms around me, I heard her place a kiss on the top of my head.
I knew saying goodbye would play a vital role in our relationship. I recognized the stress that Denisa was feeling, not sure how to respond as I went around the room hugging all the girls and saying my farewells, saving her for last. I could see Denisa out of the corner of my eye as she pretended not to watch me, second-guessing whether I would say goodbye. But when I got to her, I grabbed her arm and insisted that she was going to walk me to the van. Instantly, her face lit up. She willingly allowed me to drag her to her feet, and skipped out the door ahead of me with such energy and joy I couldn’t help but laugh. That little thing, that tiny gesture, meant so much to her. She knew I loved her, even if she only believed it for a moment.
This month has been the hardest month of ministry for me yet. Denisa was my ministry. Never have I seen a heart so raw, so wounded, and known that I had to surrender it. I could not try to carry it, I could not try to prove that I loved her. I had to trust that God was working in her heart and that God would bring His work to pass. Because you can’t patch a broken heart…. Only God can bring new life.
