One Day in Moldova

Driving down the dirt road, I knew that I had entered a different world. Not that I haven’t been on a dirt road before. I grew up in a small town with plenty of them. But I had never been on one that was the main thoroughfare through town. And never on one that was in such poor shape, surrounded by small, simple houses that were equally in poor shape.

I was about to meet a pastor that our church has supported for 20 years. It would be a meeting that I would never forget.

When I became the pastor of Community Bible Church in 2010, I quickly learned about the missionaries the church supported. One of them was Valentin Sandu, a national pastor in Moldova. To be honest, I didn’t even know where Moldova was at the time. And I definitely couldn’t have imagined being in Moldova just a few years later. But here I was…

Walking toward the house, I had flashbacks to my grandmother’s house in Illinois. She lived in a different era with a small house, a little garden, and farm animals all around. I remember pumping water up from her well, looking at her outhouse as an odd relic, smelling the odors of her chicken coop, and sleeping on the pillow she made me out of 100% goose down. (A pillow I still sleep on today by the way.)

But this was not a memory of a previous generation…this was a present reality. And I was walking into it.

The house was simple but the welcome was warm. I took off my shoes and stepped over the threshold into a home of simplicity and activity. In the kitchen, Valentin’s wife and his daughter were busy preparing food. I ducked into a smaller room off the kitchen where two sons, one of their wives, and a small daughter greeted me. Soon Valentin and two more sons also joined us.

We ate in another small room with a makeshift table surrounded by chairs and couches. The room was probably big enough for a couch and a few chairs. But today it would serve as a dining room for nine people (our group of four, Valentin, and four of his sons).

The men would eat in one room. The ladies in another.

I was nervous about lunch. I am a picky eater. Picky to a fault. And I knew that this meal would probably be a “feast” and a sacrifice for them to prepare. To not eat it would be an offense to their generosity. To eat it, I feared, might be an offense to my finicky taste buds.

But to my delight…and in answer to my very real prayers…the meal was chicken broth soup, lamb, mashed potatoes, and a vegetable salad. I politely skipped the vegetable salad and thoroughly enjoyed the rest of the meal. It was 100% “organic.” The chicken and the lamb slaughtered that week, the potatoes and vegetables freshly picked. Even the grape juice we drank was from local grapes. I was glad that my picky palate allowed me to partake of their sacrificial provision.

The sharing of a meal was the heart of fellowship in biblical times. And I experienced that on this day.

Before the meal I knew Valentin, his family, and his ministry in my head, now they were in my heart.

Valentin is a relatively short man. Distinct facial features. Gap between his front teeth. Rough, strong hands. He bears the marks of a hard life. Recently he had back surgery from which he is still recovering. Meanwhile his family has faced one trial after another. The wife of one of his sons was in a serious car accident and is still unable to speak and walk. Valentin and his wife emotionally care for their son, and physically care for their son’s one year old daughter, as he cares for his stricken young bride. On top of that, one of his daughters was recently diagnosed with a serious vascular disease. The only “good news” from the diagnosis was that it was not the cancer which they had originally feared. And if that wasn’t enough, recently their cow had died, the cow that provided milk for their family. It was no small loss but rather a heavy blow to their daily livelihood.

Hearing his trials humbled me. Looking around at his meager belongings and the harsh realities of his life, I realized how small my own problems were.

Then tears welled up in his eyes as he explained how our church’s faithful support has enabled him to stay in ministry and often enabled his family to survive. A small amount of money in America is producing a mountain of blessings in Moldova.

After lunch, I needed to use the bathroom. I was escorted outside of the house and directed down the walkway to a small, wooden hut. Inside was a makeshift toilet seat (actually an advance from the holes in the floor that most places have) over an open latrine. The warped wooden door would not close all the way. Perhaps a blessing in disguise as the smell hit me in the face. No lights. No water. No heat. I wondered what that trip to the outhouse was like in the middle of winter when Moldova (at the same latitude as Boston) is under a blanket of snow.

I won’t complain about a cold toilet seat again.

Leaving the outhouse, I took a look around at the sheep, chicken, and goats gathered in their own individual pens. I started to reflect on the difficulty of such a rustic life when a dog took a charge at me out of nowhere. Thankfully the chain kept him from chewing my leg off. I quickly went back inside.

After singing some hymns together with his family, talking together about God’s faithfulness, and enjoying more fellowship, we headed off to church for the evening service.

We parked outside the gate and entered into the nicest building in the village. We were the only car there. Every one else walked. A trough outside the church doors was used for people to wash the mud off their shoes. The story of Jesus washing His disciples’ feet suddenly became relevant again.

It was during the worship service that I started to feel less sorry for Moldova and more sorry for the U.S.

We have lost something.

In our prosperity, we have taken the simple blessings of life for granted. In our independence, we have lost community. In our pride, we have forgotten God.

I preached on thankfulness that night. And I was the foremost one who needed to hear it.

Yet when I was done, the people responded with prayer after prayer of thankfulness. In the midst of their adversity, their hearts rejoiced in the abundant provision of God. Their songs filled with passion and joy.

After the service, Valentin and I hugged each other, wept together, and prayed together for each other’s congregations.

A bond was created. Between two churches. Between two pastors. 5000 miles away yet joined in ministry. Joined in Christ. One poor. One rich.

But thankfully, on this day, he shared some of his spiritual prosperity with me.

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