White Horse to Bucharest:
lessons Romania taught us
He who has not seen Bucharest, nor ridden upon a white horse, knows not what is beautiful in this world.
-Romanian proverb
An elderly, illiterate woman hears the story of creation for the first time. A Christmas shoebox finds its way to a street boy in a snowy parking lot. The secret police trail a Bible smuggler through the streets of communist Romania. An old woman in a dreary hospital ward demonstrates the meaning of true love. One of Romania’s many orphans finds his roots in a poignant homecoming.
When their church sent them out as humanitarian workers, Lee and Vila Gingerich expected a positive experience, but they never guessed how much Romania would teach them. Through this collection of over seventy short stories, let Romania steal your heart like it did theirs.
Excerpt:
I knew humanitarian work wasn’t all tropical beaches, bustling foreign markets, and piña coladas. I realized our church sent workers to the countries of the former Eastern Bloc.
I just didn’t think it would be me.
After our decision to volunteer under our church’s humanitarian program, my husband and I filled out an application form. Toward the bottom of the page was this heady question: is there any particular place where you feel called to serve?
Oh, the possibilities!
The wildness and exoticness of African countries, the catchy music and friendly people south of the Rio Grande, the mystery and charm of Asia… How could you ever narrow it down?
In my mind’s ear I heard the calls of the market vendors. I caught a whiff of nutmeg from some elusive source. I pictured myself coming home a changed woman, with permanent tan lines from wearing hemp flip-flops under the equatorial sun, lean and fit from walking dusty trails. Learned in foreign arts, I would skillfully eat with chopsticks or shape flat bread with practiced ease. Perhaps I might be called on to provide medical assistance in some remote village, maybe even deliver a baby or two single-handedly.
There were only three countries I wanted no part of: Russia, Ukraine, and Romania. Why, everyone knew those photographs—always in black, white, and shades of gray—of Eastern Europeans garbed in fur hats and overshoes, standing in somber lines at grocery stores. Those countries faced frigid temperatures for a huge percentage of the year. Didn’t the church sewing circles make thick dark double-knit blankets for Romania?
However, since these were only three out of all the many posts available, I brushed them from my mind.
I just didn’t think it would be me.
After our decision to volunteer under our church’s humanitarian program, my husband and I filled out an application form. Toward the bottom of the page was this heady question: is there any particular place where you feel called to serve?
Oh, the possibilities!
The wildness and exoticness of African countries, the catchy music and friendly people south of the Rio Grande, the mystery and charm of Asia… How could you ever narrow it down?
In my mind’s ear I heard the calls of the market vendors. I caught a whiff of nutmeg from some elusive source. I pictured myself coming home a changed woman, with permanent tan lines from wearing hemp flip-flops under the equatorial sun, lean and fit from walking dusty trails. Learned in foreign arts, I would skillfully eat with chopsticks or shape flat bread with practiced ease. Perhaps I might be called on to provide medical assistance in some remote village, maybe even deliver a baby or two single-handedly.
There were only three countries I wanted no part of: Russia, Ukraine, and Romania. Why, everyone knew those photographs—always in black, white, and shades of gray—of Eastern Europeans garbed in fur hats and overshoes, standing in somber lines at grocery stores. Those countries faced frigid temperatures for a huge percentage of the year. Didn’t the church sewing circles make thick dark double-knit blankets for Romania?
However, since these were only three out of all the many posts available, I brushed them from my mind.