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Inspiration My "Refugee" Journal

A Fount of Joy

For over three years, I have drunk pain by the tumblerful. Everything had the potential to remind me of my deep heartache. Even welcome things—good news, time with friends, lovely music, beautiful scenery—could unexpectedly release a fount of tears.

I’d come to terms with what happened to us. I could see the purpose in our pain, the divine plan that turned us—Ukrainian-speaking missionaries—into refugees and deposited us in the middle of a small country with thousands of others who had fled Ukraine. These refugees were searching for comfort and answers, and we were right there, fellow wayfarers on this unwelcome journey of displacement, ready to introduce them to Jesus. I couldn’t deny that the way God was revealing Himself to people who had never known Him was beautiful. It was a privilege to be part of it. I was at peace with our lot. But I was deeply sad.

Everything reminded me of the life we’d lost. Gladness, when it came, was short-lived, and joy, which was rarer, had the capacity to pierce more deeply than grief. For three years, I’ve been groping my way through this swampland of sorrow, lost in the mist, feeling doomed to wander in circles forever.

Until last week. I was at a women’s retreat, having breakfast with a new friend. She asked about my experience since the war, and I found myself opening up about my profound pain. She then said we could offer our suffering as a sacrifice to God. Her tone was friendly, almost off-hand. I didn’t feel talked-down to or preached at. And her words lit a spark that has grown into a comforting flame.

Almost ten years ago, God called my husband and me to make a difficult choice. We said yes without hesitation—but I added, “Only for You, Jesus.” Though it was painful, we knew it was His will. We served Him with joy in the midst of an extraordinarily challenging situation. I could do it only because each time the pain threatened to overwhelm me, I offered it to Jesus as an act of worship. He had called, we had answered, and there was great joy and freedom in that equation.

Being displaced by war was far more painful, but the fruits of this ministry have been exceedingly sweet. So why was I unable to experience the same joy and freedom as before? 

This time, we didn’t have a choice. War and displacement just happened to us. I didn’t get the chance to say yes to Jesus. Because I hadn’t heard and answered a specific call, I didn’t realize I could offer this suffering as an act of worship also.

That wise woman’s words suddenly made everything clear. Though I wasn’t granted the privilege of accepting the assignment up front, I can still say yes to Jesus. I can choose every day to accept the pain then lift it to Him as an act of supreme worship. Since I started doing this, joy has returned to my soul. I can feel it bubbling up inside, a constant, life-giving fountain.

God could have shown me the future. He could have given me the opportunity to agree to walk this path, but that very acceptance would have lessened the impact of our suffering. This lot had to be forced on us if we were to truly relate to other forced migrants. Now that I understand, I can find joy in saying yes—even to the forcing.

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My "Refugee" Journal

At a Loss . . .

Today they bombed the largest children’s hospital in Ukraine, Okhmadyt, a state-of-the-art facility known even beyond the borders of this country. 

I say “this country,” because I’m writing from Ukraine. We arrived here in Ternopil last night with our three youngest kids. The power was off—a scheduled blackout, a result of Russia’s relentless attacks on Ukraine’s energy infrastructure. We put the kids to bed by flashlight. Before retiring, I checked the official Telegram channel of the Armed Forces of Ukraine, a nightly habit when we are here. 

In almost two and a half years of war, Ternopil has only been hit three times, but the air-raid sirens go off routinely. In this Western Ukrainian city, many alerts (most?) are triggered by the takeoff of Russian aircraft capable of launching long-range missiles. According to my brother-in-law who lives here, these types of alerts are not really a cause for concern in Ternopil. Most locals ignore them. 

However, the official Telegram channel sometimes predicts real threats before the sirens sound—which is why I consult it as part of my bedtime routine. When I went to bed last night after 1:00 a.m., it said Russian missiles were expected to enter Ukrainian airspace after 2:00 a.m. The post concluded: Do not ignore the sirens. Take shelter.

The sirens awakened me shortly before 3:00 a.m. 

My first feeling was urgency. I needed to do something—quickly. But what? My thoughts were sluggish, the gears of my mind still clogged with sleep. 

Those are sirens.

Got to get everyone into the hallway. 

George is still sleeping. 

Need to wake him. 

“George!”

“Wha—?” he mumbled.

“C’mon!”

“Okay.” He didn’t move.

“George!”

“What?”

“Get up!”

“Huh?”

“Sirens—c’mon!”

“Oh, I was . . . um, I was trying to . . .” He shook himself. “What are we supposed to do?”

“Kitchen. Balcony. Mattress. Hallway.” My thoughts were rattling around in my head.

“Huh?”

I tried again. “Mattress on the kitchen balcony. Get it and bring it to the hallway.”

I need to get the kids.

Wait, I should check to see what’s triggering the siren.

No, I should get the kids first, then check.

No, maybe it’s not worth disturbing them.

Where’s my phone?

No. Kids first, check second.

The kids had all asked to make beds on the floor with blankets—that way, in the event of an air-raid alert, I could simply pull them into the hallway without having to wake them. Soon I had all of us crowded into the short section of hallway where the walls were unbroken by doorways. Ukrainians call this the “two-wall rule,” the goal being to have two walls between you and any potential point of impact. After twenty-eight months of living with frequent air-raid alerts, for the most part, no one I know bothers to go to the underground shelters anymore. It’s too disruptive to your sleep and your daily routine. 

George went back to sleep almost immediately, but between him and our eleven-year-old, there wasn’t enough room for me to lie down on the twin mattress we’d placed on the hallway floor. That was okay, because I’ve never been able to sleep during an air alert. The sirens only sound for a minute or so, but I can’t relax until they announce the all-clear. Instead of sleeping, I monitored the Air Force Telegram channel, tracking the progress of the rockets heading towards various parts of Ukraine. None were coming our direction.

The all-clear sounded shortly before 4 a.m. George and I went back to bed, leaving the kids sleeping in the hallway. I snuggled under the covers, allowing my exhaustion to immobilize me. Sleep would claim me any minute. 

But it didn’t. 

When the sirens started again at 7:20 a.m., I had the impression of not having slept at all, except for a short spell of fitful dozing. This alert was triggered by the takeoff of Russian military aircraft. It lasted less than thirty minutes. I contemplated the psychological impact of Russia’s tactics. Disrupt the nightly sleep of an entire nation with deadly attacks, then heckle them throughout the day with threats and posturing.

George and the kids left to meet people for breakfast. Dizzy with fatigue, I opted to stay behind. Surely now I would sleep. 

I was just dozing off when the sirens started again at 9:48 a.m. I moaned. 

I should move to the hallway.

It’s probably nothing serious.

I should move.

Not yet.

Too tired . . .

I forced one eye open and checked the Air Force Telegram channel. This wasn’t threats and posturing. There were rockets in the air above Ukraine again! They were headed all over the place. Thankfully, none were coming our way.

I noted activity on the group chat for our former church-planting team. The war scattered us, but we still maintain contact. Three of them are in Kyiv right now. They reported loud explosions and plumes of smoke rising from multiple locations across the city. 

The images are heart-rending.

In Ternopil, the air alert was cancelled at 11:36 a.m. 

Then the reports started coming in. Over forty missiles hit six different cities. The targets were apartment buildings, civilian infrastructure, and a children’s hospital.

The images are heart-rending. A woman comforting a bloodied child. Bald children sitting in chairs along the edge of a parking lot, still attached to their wheeled chemo machines. In one video, lines of people pass chunks of rubble hand to hand, bucket-brigade style, to clear a massive mound and reach survivors. Doctors in blood-soaked scrubs work frantically beside normal people who arrived to help before official rescue workers could make it to the scene.

Pray for an end to this war.

A few hours later, while these efforts are still underway, they hit another Kyiv hospital.

I have no words left to tell you how I feel. 

Pray for Ukraine.

Pray for an end to this war.

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My "Refugee" Journal

Before and After

This is the baby of our family

It divided our life into before and after.

For the most part, I’ve accepted what happened to us. Life is hard, and tragedy strikes indiscriminately. As a wise man once said, “People ask ‘Why me?’ But I always think, ‘Why not me?’” (The wise man is my dad.) 

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Inspiration My "Refugee" Journal

It’s Not All Bad

I captured this reflection of the sky in a dirty mud puddle by the side of the road in the Carpathian Mountains of Ukraine. It’s a fitting metaphor for this post.

One week ago I finished the second draft of my memoir Finding Home Again. It’s an intimate telling of the experience of being displaced by war. It’s not about war, per se, but rather the emotions that result when you’re torn away from home with little notice. It’s about the struggle to rebuild your life elsewhere, about finding the will to keep going, to make things work, to begin to live again. It’s about deciding to thrive, not just survive. 

I wrote the epilogue in December 2023. It’s a poignant reflection on the past with a hope-filled contemplation of the future. It feels complete and satisfying. The loose ends are neatly tied up, and the reader can close the book with a sigh of contentment (I hope). But life isn’t so neat. It defies the tidy boundaries that storytelling demands. 

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Encouragement My "Refugee" Journal

Where is Home?

I just returned to Budapest from a trip to the United States. On my outbound journey, I transited through London. As I walked from my arrival gate towards the terminal, there were a series of advertising messages posted on the wall of the corridor. I couldn’t help reading them, because I’m a compulsive reader. The words on one literally stopped me in my tracks, and I took the picture above. 

Is home where you’re from or where you’re going? 

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Inspiration My "Refugee" Journal

My Soul’s Cry

After months of feeling almost content with our new normal, today I felt, once again, the pain of being displaced. I couldn’t have told you why, but there it was. It sat heavy on my chest, crushing the air out of my lungs, as I sat gingerly in a plush armchair in a coffee house in downtown Budapest. One minute I was admiring the homey decor and humming along to the familiar song playing in the background, the next I was biting my lips, my throat constricting as I looked up and blinked repeatedly to keep tears from dripping down my cheeks. 

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My "Refugee" Journal

My Story, part 9

The Carpathian Mountains were still in the grip of winter when George evacuated.

Read part 1part 2part 3, part 4, part 5, part 6, part 7, and part 8.

Ternopil, Ukraine, February 26, 2022, 6:30 am

George’s alarm went off at 6:30 am. He roused himself from his bed on the floor in the open kitchen area. The apartment was dark and quiet. He quickly gathered his few belongings and put them back in his backpack. He visited the bathroom and combed his hair. Breakfast and coffee were not on the agenda, and he was soon ready to leave.

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My "Refugee" Journal

My Story, part 8

Read part 1part 2part 3, part 4, part 5, part 6 and part 7.

No Man’s Land, Dzvinkove Border Crossing, Ukraine
February 25, 2022, 6:00 pm

The sun went down on us as we waited to cross the Hungarian border. The sky slowly faded to black, and still the single-file line of cars stretched far in front of us. Eventually we reached a place where we could see the Hungarian checkpoint. It looked so close, but we knew that it could still take hours to reach it. Even though it was now in sight, I was reluctant to leave the cozy atmosphere of the van to go stand in line with the other people crossing on foot. But eventually I could put it off no longer. We knew that our ride was in position on the other side, and by calling and watching to see who answered a phone and began talking, we were even able to identify our driver and his van. I gathered my kids and grabbed a blanket or two to ward off the cold, and we walked to the end of the pedestrian line. Like the line of cars, it was much longer and moving much slower than its counterpart on the Ukrainian side of the border. 

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My "Refugee" Journal

My Story, part 7

Read part 1part 2part 3, part 4, part 5 and part 6.

Kyiv, Ukraine
February 25, 2022, 6:00 am

George had been having a very different experience from us. After we had said goodbye on the call early that morning, he left our apartment with Olya to find some way to rendezvous with Anastasia and her son and get out of Kyiv. Because of the curfew still in effect, he didn’t know how they were going to get to the pick-up point and whether or not stairs might be involved, so George ditched the small suitcase he had packed for his evacuation and emptied almost everything out of his backpack. He has a congenital spinal condition that acts up anytime he lifts anything over 15 pounds, so he couldn’t take a heavy backpack or risk having to carry his rolling suitcase up or down stairs. As a result, he left home with nothing but the clothes on his back, his phone and laptop, his wallet and documents, and a few changes of socks and underwear.  

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My "Refugee" Journal

My Story, part 6

Read part 1part 2part 3, part 4 and part 5.

Ternopil, Ukraine
February 25, 2022, 7:15 am

Despite the gravity of the situation, the overall atmosphere in the van was celebratory. These cousins really loved spending time together, and given how far apart we lived, they only got to see each other a few times per year. The parents may have been worried, but the kids seemed convinced that it was a party! 

Our initial plan was to go to Poland, since it was less than a 2-hour drive away. However, we talked with American friends who had headed for Poland the day before, and they were still waiting in line at the border after 24 hours! They said that a worker from the U.S. Embassy had told them they would have done better to go to a Hungarian border crossing. Since we had many connections in Hungary and very few in Poland, this information simplified the decision of where to go. We plotted a southern route to avoid Lviv and the danger of air strikes near that city and headed for the Carpathian Mountains.