Romanian Brothers And Sisters

Rachel Heffington

I hate to forget things.  There is something so horrible to me about the idea that if I am not careful to remember, I could let some precious memory slip away forever.  Of course, I can't keep hold of everything -- wouldn't my brain reach capacity far too soon? -- but when I knew I was headed to Romania in 2013, I promised myself I would keep a travel journal so that I would never forget.  Into the journal went all the ups and downs, exhaustions and joys, and beautiful testimonies from the trip.  I was able to remember, even after coming home, exactly how it felt to realize for the first time that those people an ocean apart were an irreplaceable part of my Christian family, or what we thought of a certain food, or where we discovered  unexpected beauty.

I forced time, scribbling stories along the bumpy Romanian roads or sketching a street-corner from the topmost floor of Betel church while reckless rain beat on the heads of the people below.  I carved out the time to write the words because they were important to me. I needed to remember.  When I returned in 2014, I gladly did the same.  And I did not forget.  I could not.

There is a funny story that grew out out of those same words . . . hundreds of stories born form the fellowship of American Christians who trekked across the world and were richly received by their Romanian brothers and sisters.  And I mean richly.  My journal is stuffed with remembering their generosity and self-sacrifice.  And it is this, perhaps more than any other, that keeps me eager to return to Romania as many times as God wills: that though our cultures and language and customs are literally worlds apart, we grow evermore in the same Grace, under the same Love, and are called by the same name: Christ-followers.  So though I go, somehow I stay.  I stay under the same Mercy in which we are called.  Here's to a year of more memories.