Flying to Romania with my husband, we had a layover at an absolutely gorgeous airport in Europe. Everything in the airport gleamed, from the shiny terrazzo floors to the bottles of wine and expensive skin creams on tiers of glass shelves in the duty-free shops. We were surrounded by good smells—rich coffee, freshly brewed; lovely, floral perfumes; the clean smell of freshly washed floors and new carpets.
In the airport, there was a feeling of wealth, of excess, and because our layover happened to be there, we had the sense that this place was ours for the taking—this was the life we were meant to lead. It was a nice illusion for two or three hours, a shimmery gloss over the shattered pieces of myself that I carried on this trip.
In the years leading up to this vacation back to my husband’s homeland, we had spent much of our time and a large sum of money fighting infertility in our dreams of having a baby. Every additional attempt at defying the odds added weight to our hopes, and each month that the pregnancy test came out negative felt more and more defeating.
Against all odds, we finally had success—two beautiful parallel lines in the window of the pregnancy test stick, my body carrying another life in addition to my own. An early ultrasound had confirmed our excitement, as we listened, elated, to the quick pulsing heartbeat on the monitor. Our dream of a baby was becoming a reality, and for a few amazing weeks, we soared.
Then, at my second ultrasound appointment, a terrible silence loomed as the doctor eyed the monitor, concern tightening his features. In a moment, all of it came crashing down. There would be no watching my belly swell in the coming months, no registering for baby gifts, no precious baby to call our own in December. It felt as if someone had cancelled Christmas.
The devastation I felt took me deep into waves of sorrow, the undertow of which was stronger than anything I had experienced before. I had been a Christian for years, and my relationship with Christ had become a central part of my identity. Questions swirled in the aftermath of our loss, though, questions that were steeped in feelings of guilt and abandonment. I kept wondering what I had done wrong and whether God was mad at me. He certainly seemed far, far away—much more distant than I ever thought possible.
More than anything else, the question of where God was in all this, and whether he cared about my pain plagued me. Was His heart breaking, too? If so, why didn’t He prevent this loss? It was with these questions still swirling that I had boarded the plane to Romania that summer.
After a few shiny, luxurious hours at the airport, our layover came to a close, and we headed to Budapest, where we had booked a shuttle bus that would take us the final leg of our trip into Romania. Our descent into the airport there was just the beginning of a tough journey back down to a reality which included a long and cramped delay at Customs, a missed bus, a scramble to find an alternate ride, hours driving a long, out-of the way route into Romania, feet swollen from more than 24 hours of sitting upright, and absolutely overwhelming exhaustion. The posh glimmer of our layover was a barely a foggy memory as we rumbled over pot-holed streets into the village where my husband grew up.
In the village, life is boiled down to its most basic—meals made from scratch, some homes without air conditioning or central heating, wood stoves filling rooms with a comforting smoky fragrance, honest conversations around small tables covered in vinyl tablecloths.
People often walk the dusty streets rather than driving to friends’ homes, to church, or “downtown.” The main stretch of road through the village is spotted with dung piles from the small herd of cows that rumble up to the pasture each morning and back down to their stables each evening. Stray dogs limp around during the day and make a racket at night, their barking coming through the open windows. It is impossible to maintain any illusion of luxury here.
I start my days trying desperately to straighten my naturally course hair and applying just enough makeup to feel presentable without appearing gaudy. But in the heat, these efforts are usually worthless, my hair ending up in a ponytail and my makeup melting off in less than an hour. I am unable to conceal my grey roots—or my body odor—as our time in Romania continues. I find myself feeling exposed. People are able to see me the way I am, as the veneer that I am normally able to maintain over my dark circles and age spots is wearing thin, along with my ability to conceal my heartache.
I find myself dissolving into tears far too easily here. Sometimes the tears are expected, as when my mother-in-law lovingly expresses her condolences for our loss, her own pain evident as she tries to offer gentle words of comfort.
Other times, the tears are surprising and embarrassing, sobs catching in my throat as my husband and I attempt to sing a duet at his church our first Sunday morning there. I find myself staying up late into the night, devouring a book I had brought with me on God’s role in suffering, hoping to find the magic words that will make it all OK again.
Instead, I am left with more tears, and with questions—about who God is, whether He actually cares, and if I can ever really trust Him again.
After our first week there, I find myself back at the church again. The tiny church where my husband’s family has worshipped and served for nearly a century has changed very little over the years. The young people sit at the front, the elderly at the back, and men and women sit on opposite sides of the church.
The hand-painted mural adorning the front wall of the church and the simple chandelier hanging above are the only decoration here. Otherwise, the church itself is fairly rustic. Tall windows line the pale blue walls of the church, but in spite of the sweltering heat, they are rarely opened, due to the older generation’s fears of catching “a draft.” Straight-backed wooden pews are hard and unforgiving, and they sit on unvarnished wood floors, with small gaps separating the floorboards.
The dear people that attend this church are “unvarnished,” as well. Their warm smiles often reveal crooked, missing, or metal-capped teeth, since good dental care is expensive and difficult to come by, even in the years since communism fell. Two people in the church have crossed eyes, the result of childhood injuries that could not be properly fixed with the medical care available at the time. Open-toed shoes or sandals reveal feet with bunions, toes bent by arthritis or injuries, nails left yellow from fungus. Women do not “fight aging” here the way they do in the states, many wearing no makeup and letting their hair gray naturally.
There is the pain of poverty here, too. One visiting woman has recently lost her husband in a terrible accident, leaving her on her own, destitute, to raise a troop of children. One of her girls sits in front of me, and I am able to see small bugs crawling in her matted hair. The scent of body odor is strong and oppressive.
In this setting, where the veneer is stripped away from all of us, I am struck by the wretchedness of humanity. It is so easy for things to go wrong. Bodies get sick, get hurt, get old. I want to stand above all this, to feel immune from the ugliness of illness, injury, and poverty, but I cannot. All around me, I see the utter brokenness that I have been feeling, personified.
It is in this setting that I see the ushers preparing to distribute the Lord’s Supper. One simple metal tray holds the bread; another holds small cups of wine. As they start distributing the bread, the congregation begins singing the mournful hymn, “Oh the Deep, Deep Love of Jesus.” They are singing acapella, but the swell of voices fills the tiny building. They break into gorgeous harmony, the men booming out sonorous bass notes, and I am fully enveloped in the rich minor chords of the song. I take the bread, and am suddenly struck by Jesus’ words:
“This is My body, broken for you.”
Broken. Jesus came to this. To brokenness. To lepers and prostitutes. To crooked teeth and toes, to crossed eyes. To parents who had lost children. He lived among the poorest of the poor, walking hot, dusty streets. And he didn’t hold himself above our suffering. His descent from the glories of heaven ended in flesh. He dwelled among us. He took on our wretched humanity, a body that could get sick, that could be broken. That was broken.
He was here, even now.
The words of the hymn took on fresh significance for me. The heat in the sanctuary pressed in like an embrace as I felt the distance closing between me and this God who could break. His love was a “mighty ocean…underneath me, all around me,” and nothing could separate me from it. Neither life nor death. Not even the death of a tiny life.
God was not removed from my suffering. He was nearer than ever in the midst of it, because he knew what it was to hurt. He bore my brokenness Himself.
Emmanuel Even Now 