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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

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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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 2

Enjoying special treats on the train

Read part 1.

Ternopil, Ukraine
February 20, 2022, 10:00 pm

The train ride west from Kyiv took about seven hours. When we arrived in the city of Ternopil that night, fellow passengers helped me lift the kids and our stuff down the high steps of the old-fashioned train wagon. One of my brothers-in-law found us on the crowded platform. He had our three oldest kids with him. We all hugged, and the big boys took our bags. 

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My "Refugee" Journal

My Story, part 1

Ukraine has many beautiful churches, and this one, St. Andrew’s in Kyiv, is my favorite.

We meet lots of refugees from Ukraine here in Budapest. It’s easy. All you have to do is go to a park and listen for people speaking Ukrainian or Russian. Then you ask them where they’re from and how they ended up in Budapest. People are desperate to tell their refugee stories. They often start with the morning of February 24, 2022, with the moment they realized war had started.

This is my story, but to tell it properly, I have to go back to the moment when I first started to take the threat of invasion seriously.

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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.