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 watch them forget they were displaced by war?
Far from their homes,
Their friends,
Their teachers,
Their normal.
But did I see them remember that they are still children?
That they can still laugh?
As they blossomed in a day designed for them?
Did I walk the streets of Ukraine alone?
Did I really enter strangers' vehicles?
Did I adventure and get mistaken for a spy?
Did I meet friendly people who welcomed me into their homes?
People who fed me?
Whose children became my friends?
Did I really see the miles and miles and miles and miles of semi trucks backed up at the border?
Did I watch fields of sunflowers streaming by as we sped back into Romania?
The beauty…
The wonder of it all blurring and etching itself into my memory.
Like the many people from Romania and Ukraine that I met along the way,
All from different organizations working together to serve a need.
Like Paul and Johnny, my drivers.
Like Peter and Sofia from In God’s Hands,
Like all their workers at the food tent, who showed up day after day,
Starting their mornings early at market for fresh supplies.
Refugees that found their feet again and served,
Those that fed thousands daily,
The workers that went home after serving and cried,
Like everyone sacrificing, but who could see no other way,
It all blurred together and etched itself into my heart.
Did it really happen?
I have so many questions for myself.
And I know the answer to this wanderer's questioning will always, always be a fulfilled and humble "yes."
You see, I am a single mother,
A housecleaner,
A photographer.
I want to find the beauty in the ashes.
I want to put smiles on the faces of those who have every right to cry.
I want my life to count.
So even though I struggle some days to feed my own children,
I could not refuse the opportunity I had to go to Ukraine.
To feed the mouths of those who knew not where their next meal would come from,
To see,
To learn,
To experience,
To grow,
And to understand.
I had a choice to travel across the world.
But those that I served did not have a choice to be displaced.
They did not choose bombs in their backyards,
Tanks in their roads,
Graveyards in their school playgrounds.
With pictures, I saw the horror of their safe places blown apart.
Their words pleaded for me to hear their stories,
To understand their pain and all that they left behind.
And they begged me to be their voice.
So I stand today before you and ask you to also see,
To learn,
To experience,
To grow,
And to understand that just like everyone sharing their stories here today,
You also have a choice.
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