reading

[Taryn Hutchison] writes with humor and affection about her experiences in lands emerging from decades of Communist imprisonment. She lived in sometimes-dismal situations, saw flames shoot out of her walls, suffered pick-pocketing, robbery, and assault … and loved her time there, where people were hungry for the gospel. Embarrassing episodes … share the pages with spiritual triumphs and the trials of daily living.

[We Wait You] is one of the best books I have read in a long time… It is a well-written, transparent memoir … Every single woman who goes to the mission field needs to read this book. It really is that good.

Exciting…life-changing…challenging to the eternally-minded…encouraging to those who long to make a difference in the world. All this and more can be said of Taryn Hutchison’s account of her mission work in Eastern Europe. By relating her own journey, Taryn does more than entertain and inform: she challenges us to examine our own commitment to follow Christ’s leading, wherever it might take us. I strongly recommend We Wait You to anyone who has an interest in global missions—and also to those who don’t. They need to know what they are missing!

You won’t even need to pack your bags to take this riveting journey behind the former iron curtain with Taryn Hutchison. Her story is true, breathtaking, miraculous, and well worth reading. I know not only because I loved the book but also because I had the privilege of being with her on the journey.

Taryn Hutchison is a fresh voice of those who continue to break new ground telling the old story… What Elisabeth Elliot’s writing accomplished a generation ago in opening the eyes of the world to tribal missions, Taryn Hutchison skillfully accomplishes in opening the eyes of the world today to global missions… You will find yourself laughing and crying at the candid expression of God’s warming grace and provision in a gray world of empty shelves that exists no longer in Eastern Europe. Within the covers of this book are run-ins with the Russian mafia, joyous celebrations in the street, intrigue, hidden microphones, faith, and adventure lived out by Taryn and her sea of friends who said “Yes” to God. Woven through the subtext of the book is a hope-filled love story that only God could orchestrate… We Wait You is a “must-read” not only for short-term mission teams, missionaries and their supporters, but also for every person who desires to live missionally and make an impact for the kingdom of God.

It’s refreshing to read a book … about real people doing real missions with real struggles and accomplishments…. The book is spiritual, genuine, and practical.

We Wait You … a fascinating account of one woman’s experiences in Romania shortly after Communism fell. You’re guaranteed to gain a broader understanding of the oppression under which the Romanian people lived for years, and of the hope they gained through the Gospel.

No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any way by any means—electronic, mechanical, photocopy, recording, or otherwise—without the prior permission of the copyright holder, except as provided by USA copyright law.

Unless otherwise noted, all Scriptures are taken from the New American Standard Bible^®, © 1960, 1962, 1963, 1968, 1971, 1972, 1973, 1975, 1977, 1995 by The Lockman Foundation. Used by permission. (www.Lockman.org)

Scripture references marked NIV are taken from the Holy Bible, New International Version^®, NIV^®. Copyright © 1973, 1978, 1984 by Biblica, Inc.™ Used by permission of Zondervan. All rights reserved worldwide. WWW.ZONDERVAN.COM

MY FIRST TEAM in Eastern Europe—Bill, Dan, and Vicki—thanks for making me laugh and bearing with me. This is your story too. Vicki, I’m proud of you for being a survivor—of me as a roommate and of cancer.

The others in Bucharest, Daniel and Marian, Mark and Wendy, John and Ann, Nita—and in Cluj, David and Susan, Suzy, Kelly, Melynda—I love you all, and I miss those days of adventure together.

The leadership women throughout the area—Sue, Gwen, Melanie, Kasia, Daniela, Krystyna, Jennifer, Slavica, Oksana, Velislava, Nikki, Cyd, Gordana, Mary, Anya, and Andrea—thanks for the joy of rubbing shoulders with you and so many unnamed others. That week in Lake Bled will always be one of my fondest memories.

Dear Ney, one of the greatest privileges of my life was soaking up your pearls of wisdom as we traveled together. Thank you for inspiring me.

My friends with Campus Crusade, I loved attempting big things for God with you. I will always be one with you in my heart.

My ministry partners, you kept me going and it was truly a team effort all those years. I deeply appreciate your sacrifice and commitment to me.

My friends at Golden Gate Seminary, thanks for encouraging me in this project and sharing a passion for Christ and for the lost.

Kay Strom, my writing mentor who taught me so much more than writing, I am indebted to you for paying it forward.

Loren, Kurt, Steve, and my mentoring group at Mount Hermon, thanks for reading this manuscript and giving me your honest feedback.

Herb, I appreciate your willingness and expertise with the photos.

And then there’s my family. Mom, thank you for imparting to me your love of writing, appetite for reading, and a small fraction of your talent. Dad, whatever I attempted, you always applauded me and made me believe I could do anything. Thank you both for trusting that God would take care of me as I followed Him to Eastern Europe.

Kurt, you are the best big brother in the world. For years, I have proudly watched you follow Christ, even as that took you into the heart of the USSR during days much riskier than mine.

My husband, Steve, thank you for believing in me and this book when I had my doubts. You eagerly sacrificed to see this finished, and I love you for that and so much more. I am so glad you waited for me.

And thank you to the Lord of my life, through whom all things are possible.

WE STEPPED DOWN from our train in the Bucharest North station, the same spot where I had arrived 15 years earlier. This time I did not come single. My husband, Steve, stood next to me. It had been five years since I left Eastern Europe, and it felt good to be home at last.

It didn’t look like the same place. The station appeared well-lit, and almost clean. No beggars or taxi drivers accosted us. I noticed cafés named Coffee Right and Mac Dan where kiosks had once existed.

My friend Melynda waited for us at the end of the platform. She crammed us and our things into her car and sped through the streets of the capital city. We chattered away, catching up on several years—another baby for her and a husband for me. I tried to absorb every sight and sound and smell. It was all new for Steve.

The number of cars had increased, with horns that worked quite well. New traffic lights, hotels, supermarkets, even a mall with a large movie marquee seemed out of place in the Bucharest I remembered. Melynda pointed out the long-overdue statues and plaques, commemorating the martyrs from the 1989 revolution. A clock in the city center counted down the days until Romania would become part of the European Union, slated for January 2007. The clock read 455 days.

Only one block from the main boulevard, it looked as if nothing had changed. Melynda drove us through rutted roads to the flat where we would stay. Our building stood in the midst of rows of high-rise apartment blocks. People still squatted along the roadside, calling out to peddle their wares or sell wrinkled apples. Packs of mangy dogs, their ribs showing, patrolled the streets. Potholes and mud littered the roads. The cars parked on the sidewalk were all the identical Romanian model, the Dacia.

After we unloaded our luggage, Melynda took us to the massive Cora supermarket across from my old flat. The grand opening had been the week before. About 20 people stood in each of the 10 check-out lines. Romanians had not forgotten how to wait patiently. Now they waited in straight lines; before it seemed more like mobs.

We ordered pulled pork sandwiches and cola light from Springtime, a fast food place inside the grocery store. I used to dream of the day diet coke would come to Romania. We ordered our food in one line, paid in another, and picked it up in a third line.

“There is no cola light. You can have coke,” the server told me after I made it to the last line.

I saw that bottled water cost the same price. “I’ll take that instead,” I said.

“No, that is not possible. You must have the coke.”

“But I don’t want the coke.”

Melynda tried to convince him. He seemed determined that I could have the coke or nothing. I couldn’t get my money back. Steve watched in astonishment.

“I guess some things will never change,” I said.

Melynda laughed. “Welcome home, Taryn!”

Steve and I sat on the sofa to pray together, committing our day to the Lord. As we prayed, I started to cry. I am not one to cry easily.

“What’s wrong, Sweetheart?” Steve asked.

“It’s Romania. I’m back in Romania.” Until that moment, I hadn’t allowed myself to feel how much I had missed Romania. Now I could not contain my emotions.

I splashed cold water on my face, and Steve and I headed to the Campus Crusade office. As we entered the metro station to go underground, a warm blast of stale air bombarded me, the smell that meant Romania to me. Bodies packed against each other in the metro car. We didn’t need to hang on; it was impossible to fall.

All of the staff members serving in the city of Bucharest had assembled at the office for their monthly day of prayer. We were ushered into the room.

Laurenţiu and Clara saw me first. They jumped to their feet and kissed me on both cheeks. Costi waved hello, Marta smiled at me, and John handed me a microphone to greet the staff.

Fifteen years ago, nine Americans had comprised the team, five long-term and four short-term. I stood amazed, looking at a room filled with about 90 staff members. Only three Americans remained. The rest were Romanian nationals. I recognized Monica, Ionel, Sorina, Radu, Anca, Dan. I knew each of their stories. I remembered when they first decided to become followers of Christ as university students. All these years later, they remained faithful.

“It is such a great joy for me to be here today.” My words came out rusty in the Romanian language. Still, they poured out of me, along with my tears. “I left part of my heart behind when I left Romania. I love Romania, and I love all of you. The hardest thing I have ever done was to return to the States. But when I did, God brought my friend Steve back into my life to become my husband. Steve is God’s gift to me. He is a wonderful husband, but he could not understand me completely. He did not know the places and people that are in my heart. Today, for the first time, the people I love can meet each other. Today I feel whole.”

As I sat down, the room erupted with applause. Many of the Romanians cried along with me as I spoke. In spite of my grammatical mistakes, they understood. My heart communicated to them that day.

Our efforts had not been in vain back in 1990. There was nothing extraordinary about my team. God had used us regular people to bear fruit, and much of that fruit had remained and multiplied. Many of our students had gone on to have fruitful ministries as doctors, teachers, or in the business world. Still more had joined Campus Crusade for Christ staff and were serving in other cities in Romania, other countries, even other continents. We had prayed for these dear ones, loved them, talked to them about Christ, and tried to show them Jesus by our lives. We made lots of mistakes, but God stood bigger.

God had provided everything I needed to make it in a world vastly different from my own. Even now, in my ordinary life back “home” in the States, a place that no longer fits well, He gives me grace to trust Him to live without the adrenaline rush. After all, if I can’t shine in the present unseen moments, the triumphs of the past don’t count for much.

I watched the Romanian staff embrace Steve, and I knew he was beginning to understand the spell that Eastern Europe had cast on me. He told me that he had never been prouder of me. Yes, I felt complete at last.

Nita’s words sounded so matter-of-fact. I had just arrived at the hostel in Vienna for a briefing conference, and Nita had come to personally deliver my assignment. She proceeded to tell me how much she loved Romania and felt certain I would, too. I didn’t believe her.

The first two hours of my yearlong mission experience had not started well. If this indicated the kind of year that would follow, I was in trouble.

Just the day before, I had to feign sadness when I said good-bye to my parents at the airport in Philadelphia. Instead, I felt sheer excitement about the adventure before me. I knew I would be spending the year in Eastern Europe, but I didn’t know any specifics, only that I could end up in any of five countries. This unknown element added to my thrill.

Romania was known to have the most heavy-handed regime and spartan living conditions of the Soviet Bloc. Spies lurked on every corner, and the people didn’t have much water or food. Since I’d prefer a spa weekend to camping any day, I didn’t think that would be a good fit for me. However, when I had been asked on the phone if I’d be open to Romania, I had admitted it wouldn’t be my first choice, but I’d be willing. Years earlier I had learned to never say “no” to God. I hoped He would see my obedience and reward me for it.

Every day after that phone call, I prayed and I pleaded, “Oh, God, please don’t let it be Romania. Please, let me go to Yugoslavia, Czechoslovakia, anywhere but Romania!”

When I checked in at the hostel in Vienna, the desk clerk told me my room was on the next floor up.

“Take the lift,” she said. “Your baggage is too heavy for the stairs.”

I climbed aboard the elevator, eager to freshen up after the all-night flight, but it didn’t budge. So I pushed the button again and again. It still didn’t move. As I was about to climb out, someone else entered and manually closed the inner accordion doors, starting the lift on its slow ascent. I had pushed the button marked “2,” hoping for the next level, but that level turned out to be “1.” My lift creaked on, overshooting my floor. I had forgotten about ground floors in Europe.

I trudged back down the narrow stairs, lugging my bags, and coaxed the key to open my door. The bathroom was my next challenge. The water faucets worked differently, but at least they had water in Austria. I tried to figure out what the contraption was that looked like a urinal as I hunted for the pull-chain to flush the toilet.

I took a deep breath. OK, I may not be a camper, but I know I can handle these things. Once I get to Poland, or maybe Hungary, if God wills it, I’ll—

That’s when Nita knocked on my door with the news about Romania.

I must have given all the right responses while Nita stood there. But as soon as she left, I crumpled to the floor like a limp pile of spaghetti, while scenes from spy thrillers danced in my head. I wondered how I could possibly handle living in a place like Romania if I couldn’t even navigate a hostel in Austria.

It’s not that I intentionally got on my knees to pray. I wish I’d thought of the symbolism of starting my year by humbly expressing my utter dependence before God. I fell to the floor because I could not stand. I simply did not have any strength in my legs.

From my position of weakness, I cried out to God. “Father, help me! There is absolutely nothing in me that can do what You’re asking me to do. I’m going to need You like I’ve never needed You before. Please, give me the strength and the grace that I’ll need every single day to make it in Romania. Please, Lord. I’m depending on You.”

Later, as I headed to the opening meeting of the conference, a dark voice hissed at me in my thoughts. You’ve made the biggest mistake of your life. Don’t be so stubborn. The voice knew my weakness. Just admit you made a mistake, go back to the airport, and go home.

I had learned to dismiss that voice. “No, I’m certain that I am exactly where God wants me to be.” I’m not sure if I just thought those words or spoke them out loud.

That evening, I met my team—Bill, Dan, and Vicki. After the meeting, jet lag and all, we took a tram to a Viennese café to get acquainted. As we each described what had happened in our lives to bring us to Eastern Europe, I realized that soon these three strangers would know me better than almost anyone.

What I remember most about our first evening together is that we laughed. We laughed so loudly, in fact, that a refined Austrian woman raised an eyebrow in our direction and sighed. I realized we would have a good team. We would have fun together. Our very survival might hang on whether we took life too seriously or could manage a sense of humor.

That whole week in the grand city of Vienna passed by as a blur to me. Every day, I digested new information and processed new emotions. I heard about the drought in Romania, read that there were five rats to every one person in Bucharest, and bought loads of canned food, because we wouldn’t find any there. It all seemed worse than my darkest imaginings.

I kept asking the ones who lived there, “Is there anything pretty in Bucharest?” I am an artist, and I love beauty.

“No, Taryn.” They shook their heads emphatically. “There’s no beauty at all.”

I took that news hard.

From Vienna, we made final phone calls to family back home and had sweet prayer times with new friends and old on the other teams going out all over Eastern Europe. We listened to astounding firsthand stories about the miracle of the recent revolutions in each country.

As much as I struggled with the idea of living in Romania, I had to admit to myself that what had just happened there thrilled me in a way nothing had before. I couldn’t forget how I felt, just one year earlier, as country after country in Eastern Europe became free. As I had watched scenes on the news of the Romanian Revolution, my heart felt strangely stirred. I had never given a thought to Romania before.

The fall semester of 1989 kicked off my final year on staff with Campus Crusade for Christ at the University of California at Berkeley. I had already served 10 years at several college campuses sprinkled across the U.S. God had started beckoning me to Eastern Europe a few years before, during a summer project in Yugoslavia that changed the course of my life. Ever since that summer, I’d been preparing to return, just waiting until the right time to leave Berkeley. That time had come. I received an early acceptance for a yearlong project, called Stint for Short-Term International, beginning the following school year.

That is when the impossible began to happen. Communism started falling like dominoes in Eastern Europe. Poland led the way. The day after the Tiananmen Square revolt was quashed in China, on June 4, 1989, Lech Wał images

sa led his Solidarity union to victory. By September, Poland had a new non-Communist government, the first of its kind in Eastern Europe.

I never imagined that Gorbachev’s reforms, perestroika and glasnost, would actually work, but Poland had always been different. The Communist regime could never quite get the upper hand with the Catholic Church. After all, the pope was Polish. Communism could not possibly collapse in any of the other Soviet Bloc countries.

And yet, on the October 23 anniversary of their 1956 uprising, newspapers everywhere shouted that Hungary had become free. The world had watched Ronald Reagan stand in Berlin and say, “Mr. Gorbachev, tear down this wall!” Beyond all belief, the East Germans did just that. They demolished the Berlin Wall on November 9, 1989. The images of jubilant East Germans dancing in the streets are forever imprinted on my mind. It didn’t end there. Later in November, Czechoslovakia staged the Velvet Revolution and Bulgaria instigated a coup.

The world was changing so quickly, the West couldn’t comprehend, the East couldn’t adjust, and I couldn’t take it in. The Cold War had been a reality my entire life. I was born on the very day that Soviet tanks rolled in to squelch the short-lived freedom in Budapest, Hungary. My generation grew up watching spy movies and Olympic judges who voted according to whether the skater came from the East or the West. By rote, I recited the words that God could do the impossible, but I guess I never really believed I’d live to see it.

The week before Christmas 1989, as homes across America watched Rudolph, the Red-Nosed Reindeer, the most amazing thing happened. Romanians rebelled against their dictator, Nicolae Ceauşescu, and the Romanians won. I felt hypnotized by the television news that week, unable to pull myself away. God planted a seed in my heart that soon began to sprout. A love for the Romanian people started to germinate deep inside me.

Unlike the other countries with peaceable exchanges of power, the revolution in Romania involved bloodshed. Hundreds of people lost their lives for the sake of freedom. Romanians had the most evil dictator of the bunch and were the most oppressed, often described as fearful and beaten down. How in the world did they ever get the courage to stand up and fight?

Shortly after Christmas, I listened to a cassette tape translated by a Romanian expatriate, Flory. It presented another side to the story, one I hadn’t seen on the U.S. news. Flory’s relatives in Romania made the tape, reliving the events of that fateful week. It all started in Timişoara, a border city, on December 15, the date set for the militia to force a Hungarian pastor, László Tökés, into exile. Believers of both Romanian and Hungarian descent made a human chain around his apartment block, stopping the eviction. Fighting soon erupted, raging on for days as believers secretly huddled together in darkened rooms, praying around the clock.

“We were so weary, we did not think we could continue to pray,” said a woman’s voice on the tape. “The same day we said that was the day the news broke in the West.”

The prayer baton had been passed. I picked up that baton, like so many others.

On the tape, I learned that from the beginning, the people chanted, “Exista Dumnezeu!” as their rallying cry. God exists! Their quest for freedom was always about God. It involved much more than a political exchange of power. The people were fighting a regime that had indoctrinated two generations of their people that there is no God. They were now joining their voices to let it be known that they didn’t believe the government’s lies.

God heard them and He moved. He set them free. He broke through the bars of iron holding them captive. The fighting moved to Bucharest. On December 22, 1989, in the old city square, the army dramatically turned. The tanks that had been gunning down unarmed innocent people suddenly made an about-face and aimed their weapons at the Securitate, the Secret Police. Ceauşescu, deluded into believing the people adored him, stood on the balcony of the Parliament building to address the crowd. He fled through underground tunnels, then by helicopter to one of his palaces after another in an attempt to elude his pursuers. He and his wife, Elena, were captured, given a speedy trial, and executed on Christmas Day.

The briefing conference had ended. Our train journey to Romania had begun in Vienna, the city of Old World charm and gentility. There were 10 of us traveling together, all single. The veteran team, in our shoes a year earlier, escorted my team of four. They had agreed to stay on another month to help us acclimate, before returning to the States.

Our first stop was Budapest, Hungary. The short trip only lasted three hours, but it seemed as if we were hurtled backward in time, crossing the invisible barrier between the West and the East. Guard towers, now empty, stood on the Hungarian side.

We had all day to explore the exquisite Hungarian capital. The oppressive severity of the Communist regime couldn’t extinguish the beauty of this jewel on the Danube. The cold forms of Marx and Lenin towered impassively over the city, silent sentinels to make sure the people followed the rules.

Before boarding our train to continue on to Romania, we bought more food, fearful there would not be enough to ration out until Christmas, when we’d go to the West and stock up again. We stuffed even more cans into our already bulging duffel bags.

One of the few McDonald’s existing behind the Iron Curtain stood inside the Nyugati (West) train station. We were told it was something of a tradition for Americans to fill up there before the journey to deprivation. This McDonald’s had arched domes and chandeliers. I had never seen such an opulent fast food restaurant before. The veteran team relished their cheeseburgers, some devouring them as if they hadn’t eaten for days, others slowly savoring each small bite. I wondered how long it would take me to become this starved for a taste of Americana.

Once on the train, the 10 of us settled into our berths in two adjacent cabins for our 20-hour, overnight trip. I didn’t sleep well; the excitement and newness kept my mind racing.

The Hungarian officials startled us awake at the border, gruffly demanding our passports. As soon as I dozed off again, the Romanian officers slammed the door open and entered with their dogs sniffing and growling. One officer came back with our documents, granting three-month tourist visas for the four of us newcomers, to hold us over until we received our student visas. We had expected a two-week pass.

“This is too much. This is too good for you,” the officer said, as he handed us our passports.

I smiled to myself. I knew a secret. God is too good for me.

As the new day dawned, I could see that Romania was more than a step down from Hungary. It seemed I had fallen headfirst into an abyss, descending farther away from America than I’d ever imagined. I sat glued to the grimy window all day, as we chugged along through the Transylvanian Alps. Hints of brilliant autumn colors were beginning to break out. I gazed at pastoral scenes of shepherds leading their flocks and of horse-drawn carts, laden with mounds of hay, trudging along dirt village roads. The Romanian countryside mesmerized me with its beauty. It looked as though it couldn’t possibly be any later than 1900. No telephone poles, no billboards, and few cars were visible.

The first thing I remember about Bucharest is how very dark it was. Our train squealed to its stopping place inside the cold, concrete station. There were no lights. We tentatively stepped down. Sweaty young Romanian men in ragged clothes, eager to make a few lei by carrying our bags, greeted us.

Two teenage boys loaded our many bags onto a wooden cart and pulled the cart by thick ropes tied around their necks. Their muscles bulged. It was a job for a pair of oxen. They strained to get the cart through Gara de Nord (North station) and onto the street.

My senses were bombarded. Everything seemed so strange and new. I didn’t feel afraid, because I trusted the seasoned team. I just let them lead the way, trying to take it all in.

We followed the guys with the cart outside. This was my first view of Bucharest, and I strained to see something in the dusky twilight. There were no streetlights. The guys filled several waiting taxis with our bags.

My taxi looked battered like all the others. The driver, a diminutive man with a tall hat made of curly fleece, opened all four doors, gallantly bowing with a sweeping gesture for us to get in. The pungent smell of cigarette smoke, mixed with his body odor, permeated the small car. He had two pictures dangling from the rear view mirror like fuzzy dice—the Virgin Mary and a topless woman.

He smiled, exposing the few teeth he had, and offered us some French-looking bread in a canvas satchel. The bread reeked of gasoline, but I knew to accept it. I experienced the essence of the Romanian character, hospitality, for the first time in that taxi.

Racing through the empty streets, we bounced over cobblestones and plunged into potholes. We did not have seat belts. People dressed in dark clothing, bowed down and plodding along, became visible just in time for our driver to swerve up on the sidewalk, honking his horn, barely missing them each time.

In a few minutes, the driver brought us to the dorm where I would live for the next year. Darkness veiled the bleak façade. We walked up the steps into a dim lobby and dumped our bags into the elevator that had stopped at the level of our knees. One of the guys climbed in the lift to ride up with our bags, and the rest of us clumped upstairs.

It was hard to keep our balance on the bumpy concrete steps; some tilted downhill, some up. We edged up eight flights, in utter darkness, then felt our way along a pitch-black hallway, feeling the numbers above the doors as if they were in Braille. When we reached 808, we were home.

Vicki and I were exhausted from the journey. We would stay with Shandra and Cheryl for the month, and then their room would become ours when they left. That first night, we spread beach towels on the concrete floor to try to make some sort of padding. It didn’t matter how hard my bed felt. Sleep came quickly to my weary body.

I woke up the next morning to Shandra’s voice coming from the hallway. “Yes, the new girls are here. They’re still asleep, right on the spot where the guys clubbed the rat to death last week.”

I bolted to my feet. “I will not sleep on rat guts!” I said. “I’ll sleep standing up for the next month if I have to, but I refuse to sleep on rat guts!”

Vicki and I decided to take a walk that morning, to pray and explore our surroundings in the daylight. I studied our dorm from outside. All the buildings around us looked the same. We were lost in a forest of tall concrete structures with no redeeming features. Rusty cranes lined up on rooftops, mute witnesses to projects begun and not completed. These cranes silently testified that Communism had not succeeded.

A flag waved proudly from the end of one of the cranes, the only color I could see. It had three bold stripes of blue, yellow, and red with a round hole in the center of it. The Communist coat of arms had been cut out. I had seen pictures of the old flag, with a red star on top, the sun shining down on Romania, and wheat encircling the idyllic scene. That flag no longer existed.

After walking a few blocks, Vicki and I came to an ornate iron gate, ajar, with green branches poking through the grillwork. We peeked in. Hidden inside, there appeared to be a secret garden. We cautiously pushed the gate open and tiptoed in. The bench-lined stone path led to a pond with lily pads, surrounded by flowers and trees. Steam rose from the surface of the pond. Its beauty took my breath away.

A woman, dressed very properly in an old but well-cared-for wool suit, wearing a hat and high-heeled shoes, strolled toward us on the path.

I approached her with a smile. “Pardon.” I used the international word, trying my best to pronounce it the French way. “Do you speak English?”

“A leetle.” She came closer.

“Can we,” I motioned back and forth between Vicki and myself, “be here?” I spread my arms to encompass the garden, hoping the universal charades language would help her understand. “Is it OK for us?”

“Da.” The woman nodded. “Is free garden. Gradina Botanica.” She pronounced her words carefully. “Yes. Botanical Garden. Is OK for you. You are American?”

“We wait you. Long time. I go now. Good-bye.”

Her heels clipped on the cobblestones as she left through the gate we’d just entered.

My heart sang. There was beauty in Romania after all. I tucked away a hope of this garden becoming my special place, the geography of my soul’s oasis. I envisioned the garden as the seasons changed. Closing my eyes, I could see puffy drifts of snow around the lake of crystal ice, pink buds on the trees beckoning the coming of spring, later transformed into rich golden and crimson leaves.

Vicki and I walked a bit and then found a bench on which to sit. There we thanked God for bringing us to Romania safely, taking turns praising Him aloud. We asked Him to provide our very own dorm room so we wouldn’t have to keep sleeping on rat guts, on a concrete floor.

We finished praying, and something to the right, a touch of purple out of focus, caught my eye. I blinked. The image sharpened. I gasped, seeing my very favorite deep purple flowering bush from Berkeley, California. I loved everything about these flowers, even their name, the “princess flower.” I knew that they only grew in a very particular type of climate. Even 20 miles away from Berkeley, in the microclimates of the San Francisco Bay Area, the princess flower didn’t flourish. Yet thousands of miles away, this bush thrived in Bucharest, Romania.

As my eyes brimmed full, the Lover of my soul whispered tenderly to my heart: My child, I will prove worthy of your trust.

His smile warmed me. In that moment of profound intimacy, I knew that God loved me and would take care of me. After all, He had brought my beloved purple flower all the way to Romania just for my pleasure. I didn’t need it. I’d probably survive without drinking in the lovely violet color and touching the soft petals. God gave me something beautiful to delight in, a mark of His deep love for me. If He could do that, I knew He could take care of everything else.

That day in the garden, I believed that He would answer my prayer of utter desperation from the heap on the floor in Vienna, my plea for grace and strength for each new day. But I still wasn’t convinced that I could do my part to keep trusting Him to provide.