It was the typical story. A family of 6. The mom left for work two years ago and disappeared somewhere in Kazakastan. I assumed a case of human trafficking. The dad was a shepherd and an alcoholic. The 13 year old was left to take care of her younger brother and two sisters.   They were awaiting the return of their mom. She was going to rescue them.

They slept above the stove and on a dirty mattress right beside the cat and her three kittens. Brightly colored bandanas covered uncombed, lice infected curls. Blackened pots and pans with weeks old, molded food sat on top of the broken chest. Mounds of clothes were strewn across the dirt floor. The smell of
dampened hopes hit me as I entered the room. Through the streaked windowpane, a single beam of light cast a spotlight on the shattered dreams that hung defeated on the broken bed frame. I could not shake the feeling that something ugly had taken place in here before.

We cleaned. We burned, a lot. We cut hair and gave bathes. We painted doors blue and tore down cracked walls. Then the mom came home. True story. The reality was the mom standing in front of me, holding her 3 year old daughter. The kid hung on to her mom as though she knew her. The mom had the opposite affect on the 13 year old. Did the mom really just reappear after two years? And ironically during the time the church was coming to their aid? Was she trafficked in the past? What was the true story?

 

I do know she cried. Actually, she wailed. She also yelled. While I do not know the whole truth of what was happening before my eyes, I do know there was pain and brokenness. There was desperation and
separation. I wish that I could wrap up this ‘story' for you so it could be beautifully wrapped with a happy ending, but I cannot. I do know that the church body in Slobozia is still working on the house and the mom is present. But other than that, the memory remains fresh and continues to paint a very real picture in my spirit of life in Moldova.