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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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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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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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Daddy Joys Inspiration My "Refugee" Journal

Guilt and Weariness

Despite all the upheaval and change that have characterized our life for the past 13 months, my husband George has been thriving. After he managed to get out of Ukraine in the wee hours of day 3 of the war and reunite with the kids and me, he went to bed, utterly exhausted. But he only slept for a few hours, and when he woke up, he immediately found himself surrounded by amazing opportunities to do enormous good. Without pausing to catch his breath or even missing a beat, he jumped into a swirl of activities and new partnerships that resulted in hundreds of evacuations in the critical early weeks of the war, millions of dollars of aid to the people of Ukraine, and ongoing care for the long-term needs of refugees in Hungary and elsewhere in Europe.

I have rarely seen him more alive.

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Inspiration My "Refugee" Journal

It’s Time to Dare

My eldest son surveying the view from the top of an 11,400-foot peak in the Rocky Mountains of Colorado (Photo credit: Mike Payne)

Last December I took my eldest son to a Christmas concert performed by a gospel choir here in Budapest. We personally know the director of the choir, and their annual Christmas concert was something about which we’d heard great reports for years but which we’d never had the opportunity to attend. This year’s concert was doubly special, because it was their first since COVID. 

It was a wonderful performance, full of energy, passion, and fun. In one of his comments to the audience, the director mentioned that they were an amateur choir, and they accepted anyone, even people who couldn’t sing. As I sat there, swaying to the beat and thoroughly enjoying the music, I glanced at my then 15-year-old son, a music lover who had been in a choir in Ukraine, and I suddenly had an idea. I started to lean over to say something in his ear, but half a moment later, I stopped myself and sat still in my seat, feeling shaken, stunned, and confused.

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Inspiration My "Refugee" Journal

When I opened my laptop today, this is what I saw:

I knew today was the 20-year anniversary of my arrival in Ukraine and the beginning of my life as a missionary, but seeing it spelled out so matter-of-factly was jarring. For years I looked forward to this day. I assumed I would still be living in Ukraine, anticipating many more years of fruitful and fulfilling work there. I imagined I would celebrate with a big party filled with people who had been part of my life during all the stages of my first two decades in Ukraine. I would reunite with dear friends to celebrate this milestone and reminisce about all the wonderful things we had seen God do over the years. But at some point over the last year, I began to look forward to this day with pain and anger rather than eager anticipation. It was because I realized that, along with everything else this war had stolen from me, it had also taken away this milestone. 

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Inspiration My "Refugee" Journal

Okay with “Not Okay”

This scene was walking distance from our apartment in Kyiv. I took this photo an eternity ago, in November 2021.

Over the last few months, I’ve written three posts that chronicle how we have been coping with all the unwanted changes in our life brought on by the war in Ukraine. While these months have been difficult, the overall tone of my writing is positive. In fact, my husband thinks that the second of those three posts is the most inspiring thing I’ve ever written. But today I want to start to tell the other side of the story. Yes, I firmly believe we are going to make it, and I know we have a future and a hope, but that doesn’t mean the here and now isn’t agonizing.

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Inspiration My "Refugee" Journal

We’re Going to Make It

Our impromptu family Christmas picture—using a selfie stick on the couch at our apartment in Budapest

I have always suspected that children are far more resilient than most adults give them credit for. My experience of navigating early tragedy supported this theory (my mom died when I was 5), and now I’ve had a chance to observe my own children coping with loss and grave difficulty. 

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Inspiration My "Refugee" Journal

A Future and a Hope

Our life was a beautiful dream. Every time I walked the streets around the converted old mansion that housed our apartment in downtown Kyiv, I found myself thanking God that we got to live in this charming district, filled with historic buildings and dotted with trendy cafes, interesting restaurants, and all sorts of shops. We had a close-knit church family who all lived within walking distance and a wider community of friends who were in and out of our home on a regular basis. To top it all off, our new landlords had told us that we could stay in their apartment for at least 5 years, and we planned to do precisely that. We had moved 14 times since getting married 18 years earlier, and now, we were finally settled. I couldn’t have been more pleased or content. 

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Inspiration My "Refugee" Journal

I’ve Been Really Busy

A gathering of good friends in our apartment the night before early morning explosions rocked cities all across Ukraine, announcing the start of the Russian invasion.

Someone recently asked me why I’d stopped writing. In light of what has been happening in Ukraine, the country that I’ve called home for almost two decades, I had trouble comprehending why an explanation was even necessary. But since I didn’t want to embarrass my friend by stating what felt painfully obvious to me (“…my life turned completely upside down on February 24, 2022, and I’m still trying to figure out which way is up…”), I just said (truthfully) that I’d been really busy.