Midnight. A small light breaking the darkness in our hotel room was just enough for me to watch my sleeping daughter’s little face as she dreamed peacefully by my side. Our son Evan slept undisturbed, comfortably snuggled in the small foldable bed and still holding onto his favorite stuffed sheep. Chris was also finally asleep after a couple of rough days. Meanwhile, I was positively exhausted but still wide awake, the peaceful atmosphere surrounding us just a small break from the storm.

The past few days had become too much for me. We were in the capital city for the second round of medical investigations after Chris’s second trip to the Emergency Room. His heart might have been affected by COVID-19. We were all tired, worried and grumpy, and to top it all, it was the first day of the war in Ukraine. I had not put the phone down the whole day. It was all too horrible to read but hitting too close to home not to.

Boom!

I jumped out of bed and returned immediately, remembering to hold Emily’s hand. That was all she needed to stay asleep during sudden noise. My mind could not process the terrible explosion sounds like it usually did. Apparently, neither could Chris because he jumped right up at the same time and quickly pulled a curtain. I sighed. Fireworks. Georgians love their midnight fireworks for no reason whatsoever. I felt frustrated but relieved, genuinely feeling for our friends back in Ukraine.

It occurred to me how blessed we were. Everything important to us was right there in that room. We had medical attention and a warm bed. We were together, and we were safe. The big explosion outside was just fireworks. We did not have to wake our children and carry them to a bomb shelter or cellar. They had their father right there with them, out of harm’s way. There was a nice breakfast waiting for us in the morning. But for Ukraine, the country where we had served for five years, the worst kept coming.

Ukraine is one of the reasons we are here today—it is where AFM found us. It is where we experienced loss, victory and growth. Living in Northern Romania, right across from Ukraine, Chris filled five passports during our time there, walking across the border every day. The pages in his passport were never enough for all the stamps. We crossed the bridge over the Tisa river countless times—by car, foot, or bike, in sub-zero temperatures, scorching heat, rain and snow. Our record waiting time in the customs line was four hours. Never in our lives did we imagine it would someday become four days. We read about the mass exodus flowing to Romania in the news. Everyone rallied to help. The bridge we knew so well was now crossed by thousands of refugees, mostly women and children. It has become internationally known as the Toys’ Bridge since the Romanian border police filled it with stuffed toys to welcome children fleeing the war.

When we arrived home from our trip to the capital, insomnia followed us back. We spent long nights reading the news, shivering in horror, watching solidarity demonstrations from our balcony, praying for our friends back in Ukraine and searching escape routes for people we had never met. All too overwhelming, it hit close to home geographically and emotionally. Although we rarely dare to say it aloud, it could have easily been us.

The day we learned about the first Ukrainian refugees in our city, we both felt a nudge. They are here. There is finally something we can do. I suddenly remembered the big pile of nice children’s clothes I had not disposed of yet, waiting for a worthy occasion. This was it. I took the trip down memory lane as I packed the much-loved baby clothes my children will never fit into again. I asked Emily and Evan to pick one stuffed toy each to gift a child. I could barely contain my tears when they both came holding not one of their toys that they no longer care for but some of their favorite ones.

At the collection center the next day, I was struck by the combination of dignity and sadness on refugees’ faces: the mother with the child who was afraid to look at strangers even when they came bearing toys; the father accompanying his daughter and grandson who, when asked what his needs were, answered, “Work. I only want to work;” the sad, heavy atmosphere surrounding everyone and the tears which ceased flowing because none were left.

I pray that by God’s grace, the war will end. Please join us in prayer for this country that holds a special place in our hearts. Pray that we will be able to spread hope, even if just for a few people. And make sure to count your blessings thoroughly. As for me, I will always be thankful for the midnight fireworks.

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