We pass an elderly couple huddled on
a bench in front of the church. The man with his Newsie hat is bent over,
listening to the woman’s mumbled words. Worn from the years, she has a kerchief
tied tightly around her head. Their clothes are dark and frumpy. I’d love to
stop and hear their conversation to know what they speak of in front of those
white, concrete walls. I’d like to know their stories, but we pass quickly,
driving on through the small towns on our way to the city. Not too much further
lies a small park, only a few benches and trees with patches of grass around
the narrow sidewalk. Despite the nearness of the highway, a couple has taken up
the location as a spot for their deep conversation. They stare into one
another’s eyes with a frustration only those who have shared love can
communicate. The beau, in a cultural move I do not understand, wraps both hands
around his girl’s head as if to kiss her and instead forces her to sit on a
nearby wooden bench. With one hand still on her cheek, he leans in with an air
of urgency. I imagine he tells her something of his desperation or perhaps
admits some great secret he had hoped to keep hidden all his life. 
When
we arrive in Oradea and exit the car, we begin walking down Republic
Street, passing over N. Grigorescu Street. I was reminded of a name
that sounded similar in my American ear: Nicolae Ceausescu. Ceausescu
is the name of the dictator who was executed by the Romanians in
order to overthrow Communism. It seemed odd that the Romanians around
me, young and old, should seem so normal, going about their daily
business as if twenty-three years ago was nothing but a memory. Of
course, everyone my age and younger would never have experienced
Communism. Perhaps it explains why the men and women over forty seem
to hunch a little and walk with their faces pointed toward the ground
while the young walk confidently, less aware of my observance. They
are hopeful and eager.
I have found Romania to be a country of contradictions and opposites. Dressed in the latest fashions, the men and women are still fairly segregated, yet to experience the blending power of feminism. Though, I should have said the young are dressed in the latest fashion, for most over fifty wear drab, dark clothing, something I would imagine a peasant would wear. The children have eyes bright for the future, their over-seeing grandparents half smile as they watch, faces worn and close to despair, greeting a stranger’s smile with skepticism. There are churches on every corner in every village and city to which I have traveled and yet the people seem without knowledge of God.
All these observations and pictures
in my mind lead me to a conclusion that Romania is a country ripe for harvest,
desperate for God’s love and grace. I have yet to see what His plan is for my
next few weeks here, but I am already burdened by the needs and inspired by the
beauty. “I am poor and needy; yet the Lord thinks upon me. You are my help and
my deliverer; do not delay, O my God.” ~Psalm 40:17
No comments:
Post a Comment