Shcherbans

Category: Uncategorized

  • They kept singing…

    They kept singing…

    It’s not too often that we think about suffering.

    It was a sunny day, and the mountainous village church was half-full that Sunday morning. We had come with the youth from another city to visit the small church and encourage our brothers and sisters. Few of the locals understood Russian, so the service was translated into Kyrgyz. My husband stood behind the pulpit, preaching a message on joy in Christ when he saw them jumping the fence, opening the gate, and walking into the yard. A police officer, angry neighbors and people with video cameras rushed into the church, causing a ruckus that turned heads and started whispers. Our group looked at each other and at the unwelcome visitors, frightened that they would start asking us for our documents and causing problems. Yet the locals in the church kept singing, kept praising and worshipping and trusting that God wouldn’t let the enemy bring them down.

    “Every Sunday, they keep us awake. They come and cause problems. They try to shut down the church and scare us away from the faith. But really, they’re reminding us of what’s the most important thing to the Lord, and we don’t fall asleep,” the church deacon told us in quiet conversation. We later found out that a few months ago, their pastor was taken at night, was threatened and beaten all night, and warned to stop gathering with the “traitors” who’d left the true faith, the other Kyrgyz believers.

    And we traveled to more villages in the southern area, and met with other Christians who’d been threatened and beaten and harmed, and whose church buildings had been burned and damaged. We spoke to pastors who were dragged out before their families and almost drowned before their eyes. We looked at their faces and listened to their hearts. We ate plov and we talked and laughed. We sat on the floor and sang songs with them long into the night, together praising the One who suffered so much more.

    And and all the while we learned something. They suffered pain and often lived in fear. They were under attack, but their faith was unwavering. They shined brighter, they grew stronger, and they prayed harder. We’d thought to encourage them. But the faith and commitment that we saw in our brothers and sisters stirred our souls and spoke more than encouragement to us.

    There IS a persecuted church. They are our brothers and sisters and friends. They live in harsh conditions among hostile neighbors, and they fight the battle everyday. They fight it on their knees. They fight it with the Word. They fight it with their faith.

    And they need our prayers.

    We were fine that day. The officials didn’t ask us anything, didn’t request to see our documents or threaten us in any way. We were fed a delicious lunch by the local members, and after some fellowship and songs, we left that church and city.

    We left, and there wasn’t anything we could do to stop the officials that would come again next Sunday.

    And come again the next Sunday, and the next…

    “Remember those who are in prison, as though in prison with them, and those who are mistreated, since you also are in the body.” Heb 13:3

  • Beautiful

    Beautiful

    “Your hands are so pretty. They’re so soft, and small, and white”, she said as she touched my hands, then my ring, then my fingers.  “Mine are rough, and big. Dark”.

    I looked at her hands, then mine, then hers again. Her beautiful olive skin held tones of sun and culture, a color that ran deep in the blood of her fathers.

    And I thought of what I knew about her, this woman who’d become my friend. Who’d become my sister.

    Because I knew that her hands, they served others ever since they became His.

    Those hands, they symbolized the scorching heat of gathering ripened harvest in the fields during the summer months, waking up before the sun to sweep the yard and tidy the house, and cook delicious, homemade meals three times a day for brothers and sisters and moms and dads, for family and those who became family, over and over and over again.

    They’re bringing up three precious children, feeding and washing and loving them to the moon and back. They did piles of dirty laundry for years, without washing machines or Tide. They cared for her husband, holding him up when times got tough, and encouraging and respecting him as he fervently served the Lord Jesus amidst threats and taunts and hate from his own family; family that called him a traitor as they continued Friday visits to the mosque yet drowned themselves in alcohol on Saturdays.

    Those hands, they cleaned up broken women who were abused by the men in their lives; husbands and brothers and fathers. Women who thought they had no way out until Jesus touched them through those hands. 

    They welcomed strangers and washed their clothes and gave them rest. They fed poor, hungry mouths and scrubbed the dirt off shoes and souls.

    They did so much, and will do even more, because they’re open and they’re willing and they’re strong.

    And I looked at them, and they were beautiful. Olive-toned and big and worn.

    Beautifully dark and tough.

    Beautifully HIS.

     

    Because in essence, that’s all that matters.

  • Like No Other

    Like No Other

    “Please, I beg you, just let her see the doctor for five minutes. Just look at her! She needs to be seen”, the mother pointed to her child and pleaded with me as I cleared the table that had registered more than 150 handicaps, sick children and newcomers from the village. It was already past five, the time we said we would close. I looked at the woman, then at the child, and then once more at the woman who’d brought three other mothers with her. I was told to be strict, to tell everyone that 5 o’clock was the final call; but I just couldn’t.

    She pleaded with me and begged me and looked at me with hopeful eyes, and I went to our doctors and I spoke to them, and they took all the women and their children. On the way out, her eyes danced as she thanked me, and all of them left that clinic with a smile; a mile wide.

    The doctors came from overseas to Kyrgyzstan to treat patients with disabilities and those who have very little access to medicine. People from remote places came to the cities and villages, and they flooded the buildings we occupied, arguing about who came first and who would be seen first. On the way out, as they got their medicine, some of them asked how much they owe us, and when we told them it was free, their smiles grew larger.

    And as I sat and translated and listened, my heart grew heavier and heavier with each story. The wrong dose of medicine, the harmful antibiotics, the health and the lives and the futures of the people that had been stripped away from them in a matter of minutes. The heartbreaking results of corruption and unrighteousness sat before us, and we listened and we cried and we talked to them, offering them our attention and our care. And there wasn’t much that we could do, but we saw their smiles and their thankful hearts as they left those clinics with free medicine and professional advice, and we prayed that they’d never forget what they felt with us.

    We prayed that they’d seen Christ in us.

    And I thought back to the mother who pleaded with me. She begged and she asked and she looked on me with hope, and I stopped what I was doing because I saw something in her. I saw myself in her.

    I saw the way that I kept coming to the Doctor. He’d treat me and I’d smile and run back to what I was doing, until I got another scab. Until it hurt and I couldn’t hold it any longer, and I’d run back and beg Him again, plead with Him to heal me and restore me. And He would, again and again and again. He’d gently take me and hold me, gather me in His arms and cry with me, and then give peace to my soul as I let His healing touch work in my heart.

    The day after that, we closed at five. There were people waiting, and patients who’d come too late, but we still closed. We had to drive a long way back, and we just couldn’t take them all. And I looked at their eyes and I saw their disappointment, and my heart was heavy, because I knew that we’d never have time to treat them all.

    But God, He’s different than us. He is patient and kind and doesn’t tire the way we do. He doesn’t rush to do the next thing when people line up to see Him. We come to Him, and He accepts us. We ask, and He treats us.

    “Come to me, all you who are weary and burdened, and I will give you rest.” Matthew 11:28

    “…It is not the healthy who need a doctor, but the sick. I have not come to call the righteous, but sinners.” Mark 2:17

    He is a doctor, the Doctor.

    A Doctor like no other.

  • Colors

    Colors

    The small flowers and swirls on the woman’s head scarf are unusually bright. She sits in front of me at church, and the colors stand out against the low white ceiling. I’ve seen those colors many times this month. Hanging on clotheslines and on teapots at the bazaar and on posters and vases and doors- vibrant colors that seem to contrast with reality.

    On Sundays, we gather in a fairly large room of a small house, where a wall was taken down to put in some benches and chairs and form a type of worship hall. If you come as a one-time visitor, it just looks like another group of people that have come together to worship Christ. But if you come as a one-time visitor, you won’t know or hear or learn things, things that will stir your soul.

    You won’t know that the man that is preaching is an ex-criminal who devoted his life to picking up people that have no hope or future, people that the government chooses to ignore as they live outside and find relief in drugs and alcohol. You won’t know that most of the women live without their husbands; husbands who’ve exchanged their families for jobs and ladies in higher-paying countries. You won’t know that the man that sings his heart out as he strums the guitar spent most of his life behinds bars until the Lord found him there, and the praise coming from his lips is the only way he knows how to thank Him. And the other preacher, in quiet conversation tells you that because of his love for Christ, he wouldn’t give a second thought to dying for him, and he’s been in situations close to it already. You won’t hear about the teens that have to run from angry parents at home, seeking rest and understanding in fellowship with their new family. And the woman who’s been a second wife twice, and can’t afford to rent an apartment for herself and her six kids because of wrong people and wrong choices. And the parent-less children and the lonely old lady and all the others; and we worship and sing and pray together to the One that still creates beauty from ashes.

    And some of them, they sleep on hard mattresses and pillows and altogether in one room, around a small heater that barely warms them. But those cold rooms, they hold warm, serving hearts of people with a dark past and a bright future.

    And it starts to make sense when I think of the colors around me, the colors that stand in contrast to the dirt and the mud that reflects the deep poverty and aching hearts of the Tajik people.

    Because here, under one roof, I see colors in their souls. A tapestry of dark hearts turned to white. Vibrant reds and greens and yellows, life painted over black. A masterpiece only one Painter can accomplish.

    Vessels that seemed to be of no use molded into beautiful souls that are fulfilling their purpose.

    The wisest of men once noted this truth. “He has made everything beautiful in its time.” Ecclesiastes 3:11

    Everything. Beautiful.

    He still creates beauty from ashes.

     

  • Cold walls

    Cold walls

    “I can’t believe I didn’t know these things,” he said as he quickly brushed away the tears that came down, a little shy of the fact that he was crying. “I’ve heard of God my whole life, I prayed five times a day, but I didn’t know to Who…”

    We sat, legs crisscrossed in that circle, tables low and bibles open. The walls still smelled like cheap paint, even after months of opening the windows and airing out the room. It was February, and while neighboring countries battled freezing temperatures, the people of Tajikistan thanked God for a sparing winter. The small republic still didn’t have central heating. Portable electric heaters warmed up bedrooms while doors to bigger and colder rooms were shut to preserve heat in needed areas.

    But the little heater in the center of the room wasn’t the only source of warmth. I looked around at their faces. They had all recently come to the saving knowledge. They wore their hearts on their sleeves as they huddled in that circle, radiating something that was much bigger than any heater could generate. Eyes widened and questions flowed as we dug deeper into the Word, marveling at the treasures it held.

    The cheap paint and cold walls didn’t stop the atmosphere of worship that filled the room. The air was thick with hearts kneeled before Him, open to learning and understanding and desiring more truth. We walked through the hallway of faith, heroes of then that shined brighter now. We spoke of Moses and got to know Abraham better, and introduced them to the others whose names made it to Hebrews 11. “I’m thankful for meeting brother Enoch today. I learned so much from the short notes of his life”, he said, and I sat with no words in my mouth because I’d never even related to Enoch as a brother.

    We talked about His character. It was all new to them, grace and mercy and love and the countless other traits our Father possesses. Every verse we opened and read generated comments and discussion and awe. Wonder.

    He sat there, trying to fight the tears that threatened to stream down his cheeks. He held them back for a bit, but finally gave up. And we looked at Christ and read about Him and prayed to Him, and he let the tears flow freely, tears of worship and admiration. Tears that spoke louder than words as he let his heart be molded and softened and touched by the Word.

    But he wasn’t the only one touched. He didn’t even know how much his tears affected me.

    I sat there, like the older brother that was always in the Father’s house. The Father shared everything with me. I spent all of my days with Him.

    But I wasn’t even half as thankful for all I had as this young man was, who wasn’t ashamed of his tears as he took in what the Father offered.

    I don’t remember the last time I cried in appreciation and wonder of the One who left everything, came down and served people like me. The One who died in my place. And the One who rose again, and today offers me a life filled with true meaning.

    When He was here, Jesus spoke a lot to church people. To the people that spent all of their days in the temple and knew all the rules and all the right ways to do things. And the parable of the prodigal son, or, better yet, the parable of the love of the Father, was directed to them. To me.

    “Look, these many years I have served you, and I never disobeyed your command, yet you never gave me a young goat, that I may celebrate with my friends…

    Son, you are always with me, and all that is mine is yours…”

    Luke 15:29-31

    The promise of the Father is as true then as it is now. And sometimes, He uses His children from the other side of the world that live in tough, dark places to remind me of that.

    That’s the character of my Father. That is Love.

     

     

    Published: 02/28/2018

     

  • Letters

    Letters

    It was cold as we walked, the type of cold that the wind blows into your face to remind you that it’s January. The snow crunched under our feet as we picked up the pace to make it on time to evening service, and I caught myself regretting that I hadn’t worn my warmer scarf instead of the pretty little thin one.

    The sun scarcely made an appearance this winter in Kiev, the days were shorter, and evening was approaching. We hardly noticed him, the dark figure heaped in the white snow. He was on the other side of the road, and if it weren’t for an elderly woman who stopped and started talking to him, we might have walked right on by. Drawing closer, we saw that the man had been drinking. He’d fallen down on the cold ground and claimed he couldn’t get back up. He was wincing from pain as he talked, holding his back and attempting to get up. We stopped, asked some questions, helped him stand and set him straight. But as he wobbled around and made a few steps, it was clear as day that he wouldn’t be able to get back home.

    He held his back as he stuttered to explain his spine problem, and along with it his life. The empty vodka bottle in his open coat pocket spoke loud as he told us of his job and wife and son and pension and health and memory and the rest of the troubles that haunted him.

    We couldn’t leave him. He was cold and he was desperate and he was broken. My husband took him by the arms and around his shoulders, and for the next hour carried the weight of that man, heavy and deep. Step after step and street after street, we shuffled toward the apartment that was somewhere ahead of us. We were late for church, but that thought escaped our minds. Time and again, the man asked if we would really lead him all the way home, as if frightened that we would drop him back into the freezing snow that threatened to do him harm.

    And we slowly walked, and he fell, and we picked him back up, and he took some more painful steps, and he fell, and we picked him back up again. We talked to him. We told him about God and love and grace. We told him that there was no one on this Earth that was too low for Him to pick up. “There’s no God, and He surely doesn’t love people”, he answered us skeptically, letting us know that he didn’t believe, nor did he want to.

    It seemed that his house was miles away, the rate at which we trudged toward it. We’d shake him up by putting snow on his face and we’d answer his phone and let his neighbor know that he was on the way home, away from the cold that seemed to keep calling his name.

    We finally made it to his apartment. It was located on the fourth floor of an old grey building. The people we passed near the entrance seemed to have similar fates to this man’s, their eyes glossed with a faraway look. He carelessly searched his pockets for the key while a few neighbors and women gathered around, bombarding us with questions and words. We took a few minutes to answer them, said goodbye to the man, and turned around to head down the stairs. Mission accomplished.

    Wanting to leave this man with something, right before heading down, I looked at him again and said, “But still, please don’t forget that God loves you.”

    He paused, looked at the both of us and said, “What I surely will never forget is what you two did for me tonight.”

    I’d hoped that my last words would leave something in his heart.

    But, in all honesty, his words pierced mine.

    Quite frankly, we didn’t do much at all. We saw a man lying in the snow on a freezing evening, and responded. We didn’t need to sacrifice much, or go to great lengths to get something done.  We just heeded the call.

    We walked out of that apartment building, hearts convicted and eyes opened wider. His words echoed in our ears. He’ll forget the questions we asked and the advice that we offered. But that man will never forget what we did, the simple act of love lived out.

    And we thought, how many times do we pass these people? People with needs, people with heartache and pain and suffering. How often do I stop and offer assistance, advice or some physical aid? Do I see the pain in my neighbor’s smile? Do I care enough to ask my colleague how she’s really doing?

    What if they have heard the gospel, again and again, but have never seen it lived out?

    What if I am the only Jesus that some people will ever see?

    An apostle of Christ once reminded Corinthian believers of an important truth. As ministers of the New Covenant, their changed lives should testify to the world that they are Christ’s. Their words and deeds and works should be read by all.

    “You are our letter, written in our hearts, known and read by all men; being manifested that you are a letter of Christ…”

    2 Corinthians 3:2-3

    My life is a collection of choices, deeds and words strung together into a letter.

    Does my life speak of Him? Does my letter tell of Christ?

     

    Published: 01/20/2018

  • Come spring

    Come spring

    The trees are bare, half-white, painted to the middle soviet-style. They stand there, lining the streets. They’re all the same, exactly the same. At least in the winter. Cold. Empty. Bearing nothing.

    It’s as if they are calling out for spring, screaming even. They seem tired; tired of the monotonous days when the sun makes no appearance and the snow weighs down their branches and there’s absolutely no sign of fruit. It seems there isn’t even hope that the cold will subside and that the long days of waiting will come to an end.

    And I find myself longing with them. I see myself in the branches, dirty and breaking and hanging on, desiring that which I know will come. That, which will bring change and light and smiles and colors. That, which is ahead.

    But what about now?

    What about on those regular days when I throw out my trash, and see him, the man without a home? The man that begs for food that I may have in the bags I fling into the bin, not giving them a second thought.

    What about the woman that can’t make it to the pharmacy because her knees are bad and her breath runs short and she stops me and stretches out her hand with coins and asks me to run and get her medicine with the change she offers?

    What about the ladies at work, complaining and tired and upset with new rules and smaller paychecks and devaluation of currency. How is my light shining to them?

    What about the crowded buses and the pushing and shoving and grim faces and empty looks and missed stops and crazy drivers. Do they see who I am?

    And the children in the village, Sunday after Sunday school lesson and crafts and songs. And the preparation and the small quantity of students and the discouragement…is it right?

    It’s reality and its tough and it’s hard and it’s incomprehensible. One family strives to make ends meet, hardly surviving from paycheck to paycheck while the mayor’s son gets off scot-free after a terrible crime he committed, shedding innocent blood. The homeless wander amidst the golden square of the city, searching for lost coins and giving hands. Tired wives rush home after their third job to drunken husbands and shattered dreams. Government officials search for ways to demand money, prolonging the cycle of corruption and passing it on. Workers sweep the streets and dust and snow and dirt mix together to form a mess that mirrors this reality.

    But what about now?

    It’s reality and its tough and it’s hard and it’s incomprehensible. Somehow, above it all, I hear the message of Christ. It echoes in my mind as I live and breathe and sink into it.

    “…for without Me you can do nothing.” John 15:5

    Nothing.

    And I don’t think that has ever occurred to me more than it has now.

    I am nothing without Him. I can do nothing without Him. It is Him in me and me in Him that produces fruit, that breaks the emptiness and fills and releases.

    The trees stand there, lining the street. They’re stiff and cold and tired. But come spring, their branches will stand strong and the birds will flock to their shelter as they fulfill their purpose, bringing to the world their fruits.

     

    Published
    2014/03/19

  • WHITE AS SNOW

    WHITE AS SNOW

    She was an ordinary woman, a Russian-speaking Korean lady with a wide smile and a pleasant face. She had on glasses that were a bit darker than the usual clear lenses, and a robe that was worn from many years of housework. I said hello and kissed her in greeting.

    She invited me to the table and put hot blinchiki, fresh off the skillet, in front of me. As she poured me a cup of tea, I started to notice that there was something different about this woman. I watched her move from place to place, confident in her surroundings. A few awkward bumps into things gave it away, and it finally dawned on me.

    This woman was completely blind.

    It was the time of white blanketing the earth as far as the eye could see. The time of Jack Frost decorating every window, and sleds being tugged and pulled by mothers and fathers, brisk in their attempts to transport children from place to place. Smoke from chimneys, houses and businesses filled the freezing air as white puffs of breath came out from every passerby. The streets were dotted with animal furs, draped across women’s shoulders, a mixture of bitter cold and warmth that brought about an aura of wonder. Winter wonder.

    But it was more than the dancing snowflakes and hot tea. The wonder was deeper…

    A wonder that caught my breath, their story.

    It was my second trip to their house, this family that passed through thick and thin. I knew so little of them. Yet their acceptance and love shined bright, and I was no stranger in their house. They offered me a place to stay and their help around the city. Yet what I took most of was their love. Love for Him, the One who gave it.

    They say you never know what to expect in life. You get married, you live, you love. But beyond those words stands reality: the unexpected. He took her as his wife when she was already blind. Along with that, he took criticism and unacceptance from others, responsibility and another life from her. He took the womanly duties, pampering and feeding the children, shopping and cleaning house. Braiding little heads and buying toy cars, teaching to read and write. He took the manly duties, providing bread for the family, building house, fixing cars. And also, he took the lead. He built the family foundation on Christ.

    But not right away.

    Oh, she suffered. Oh, how they suffered! A few years into marriage, he went down. Deeper and deeper into another world, one that consisted of endless needles and highs. He took everything with him. His house, his car, his job. No time passed before it was all gone. He lost everything. His children would look him in the eyes and ask to play, while his heart felt nothing but the need to continue, just another dose.

    And through it all, she stood by his side. She didn’t complain about her handicap. Not once did she let the dark truth out to their family. No one knew of the terrible drugs that sucked away everything: money, job, life. She was a Christian by then, and her faith, tested like never before, shined on. Oh, there were days of hopeless cries and endless pain. There was frustration as the thread of patience grew thin. She stood by helplessly as he wasted away, weak and thin and scared. She listened to the cries of her hungry children, loud and demanding. And she could do nothing. She prayed on.

    Seven years of hospital visits, psychiatric units, and dark days later, the moment arrived. HE is faithful, no matter our unfaithfulness. HIS promise beamed in the tear-stained face of a man beaten by life and near-death, a man who went through the valley of darkness and came out into the light. A man who had nothing— gained everything as he bent his knees and laid his heart into the hands of his Creator. Hands that had been waiting for a long, long time…

    Life turned around. Happiness appeared, not in material wealth. Hearts that were empty now overflowed with a new love, a purpose to life. Truths came out and the past opened, serving its purpose for the good of those who needed it. Scrambling to rebuild life, he started by investing into a sewing machine. It was something he could do, something he did well. Loans, money borrowed and building rents were searched out everywhere. Somehow, God provided. He started out quite small, a few neighbors with a needle and thread. A few square meters in the market, a few good customers, and a few God-sent people who marketed their product  to different countries proved God’s promise. “I will never leave you…”

    Now, he sits there, the director of a leading dress pant brand in Asia that exports to other countries around the globe. He responds wisely to my questions, careful not to take any glory for himself. They know him as the man who takes everyone, the low ones shunned by society. His factory workers consist of locals, handicaps, and people with a past. Every morning begins with devotions and prayer, and many of the unbelievers have become a part of the church over this time. He is a servant leader there in his factory, strong in his will to help and obedient to the Lord’s calling.

    She stands beside him, a rose in a bushel of thorns. Her weakness is her strength as she lives and breathes and loves and sacrifices. She’s learned everything through the years. Her cooking is hard to beat, her house spotless. Her health heavy, she lives for others. She brings an aura of happiness wherever she goes. She laughs and lives fully, cheerful and happy and blessed. She’s gained much over the years; thus, gives so much more.

    The family was rebuilt, rebuilt on Christ. Yes, he is ill now. “Sowing what I reaped”, he said. But it doesn’t stop him from getting up each morning with purpose, ready to fight the good battle of faith. They wait in excitement for the first grandson, praying that God gives enough health to see the bundle of joy.

    We left their house a week later, our hearts filled in a way we didn’t know before. A wonder that was hard to describe, lessons learned in a week that took years to compile.

    Once, a man close to Jesus, an apostle, had a vision. The Lord opened to him what He hadn’t to anyone before. Oh, the promises He showed and the words He said!

    “Behold, I make all things new.” Revelation 21:5

    Today, as before, the promise stands true. He is the Creator. He creates. And white as the snow that piled high, the snow that blinded me as I looked around when it first fell, fresh and new.

    So we must allow Him to create the new.

     

    Published: 02/10/2014