Did I really travel solo to Romania with no lodging lined up? And did I really stay the night at the home of my driver's family? Did I leave the next day with a perfect stranger to cross the border into Ukraine? Did I really have no idea what I was doing? Where I was going? Who I would be meeting? Or how I would return? Did I really end up in a college dormitory with a young woman who could only speak Russian? And was I picked up the next day by more new people? And did I finally see firsthand the work of those serving refugees? Did I hear refugees’ stories in foreign languages? Did I follow their gestures? Did I receive their thanks? Their complaints? Their tears? Their smiles? Did I watch shell shocked children climb aboard a charter bus? Did I watch their fear melt away as we drove up to a park? Did I see their concerned faces light up as they played games with volunteers? As they made crafts? As they giggled chasing each other? And as they ate and ate and ate and ate? Did I wat
Short Stories from Ukraine: Long story short, I arrived in Ukraine safely. Upon my arrival, I was roomed with a young woman in a college dormitory near where supplies for refugees were being stored. On my first night on campus my roommate invited me (in Russian translated through Viber) to worship and communion at the home of a couple she knew. We walked through the streets of Ukraine as the sun went down. My only navigation was my new roommate. She was sweet, beautiful, and hospitable. Together we shared the words for "right" and "left" in our own languages as we made turns on our walk. We giggled. We smiled. We enjoyed each other's company. Soon we arrived at our destination and were buzzed through a locked door. The flight of stairs we fumbled up were barely lit. Each step, stair after stair, was deliberate so as to not trip as we spiraled up a few flights to the couple's apartment. We were welcomed in and offered house slippers to change into. Communion