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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