My mom’s family comes from a tiny village in northwestern Ukraine called Solomka. I finally had the opportunity to visit there. The road to Solomka is terrible. It’s cobblestone, in theory, but rougher than any cobblestones I’ve driven. The car rattles so much that you feel like you’ll lose your teeth. I think it was a 45 minute journey but it’s just a guess. Ironically, I took a nap in all that ridiculous shaking, much to the amazement of my fellow travelers. Some people are just gifted.

It’s not all bumps though. The countryside is beautiful, very old world. We saw herds of cows walking home together. With no human leader, each knew which gateway and barn was theirs and left the herd accordingly. Storks were high in their huge nests on top of telephone poles. Intrigued, we stopped sometimes to take pictures of them. People hanging up laundry or sitting on front steps would watch us drive by. Folks don’t drive this way often.

I spent about five days with my Great Uncle John and his team from CIS, a ministry that equips and supports national missionaries. They build and encourage churches, and teach in schools. Uncle John is great to travel with, always laughing and telling amazing stories. They’re mostly amazing because they’re true and he experienced them himself.

Solomka. There are only 25 houses in the village and one church, a church that Uncle John and company helped build, even provided a sound system. The villagers treated me like the lost son they never knew. I explained in Tarzan-like Russian to a barrage of babushkas that my grandmother grew up there. In Ukrainian they tried to explain their relationship to her. I only hope they understood me better than I understood them.

I noticed three kinds of people there, the elderly, farmers, and young children. I understand most people when they come of age, leave the village and seek a better life in the city. Many young children go back to the village to live with their grandparents during the summer. It’s a Ukrainian thing.

Growing up, I’ve heard many exciting and sometimes gruesome war stories about how God supernaturally protected our family and led us to America. I told the Solomkan villagers at church that afternoon, that those stories led me to a faith and a true love for Jesus as young as I can remember.

I’ve always been captivated by God as the Supreme Strategist. He wants to restore relationship with each person, and uses people, circumstances, seemingly chance meetings to fulfill His Purpose. Not everyone regards God, some deliberately disobey him, and yet He weaves every move and countermove into his Master Plan.

I can only see a small piece of God’s plan in my own life from one vantage point. I easily could have been born in the Soviet Union. But in His Sovereignty, God allowed me to be born in America, where I was educated, taught the Word, learned how to teach, play music, work with children. And now, three generations later, I’m back as an Ambassador, a son of God. And not a victim of Joseph Stalin.

But after this trip, I’m struck by the idea that the Master Plan for some was to stay in the Soviet Union. They were robbed and beaten, lived their faith in hiding, prayed for deliverance. Like Narnia, it was 70 years of always winter, and never Christmas. I’m certainly no better than they. Why was this chess piece moved to Michigan, and that piece left behind?

In Solomka, I met a close relative who, at age seventeen, was sent to Siberia for ten years for being caught with a Bible in his possession. God kept some of his children here, because he needed believers to do his work on the Inside. They ultimately preserved the church and the nation until His enemies were scattered. They are ordinary people with failings, but they are true heroes.

And now that I’ve met them, eaten with them, kissed them, I realize that part of my purpose is to help bring healing to the spiritual wounds of those who grew up under that empire.
My family in Solomka is quite insistent that I return soon. Our visit was short, but I live close. I pray that God would give me something to bring them when I come again. I’m not sure what that looks like yet. But I sense a certain responsibility now, to tend the roots of the family tree.

¶ 5:28 AM

 Anonymous said...
Markus, This brings back memories of my visit to Salomka. Opa Bettich's house was empty when I went. Does someone live in it now? Patti came back to Kelowna with joy! Thank you for showing her around! I love you and am praying for you! Your "AUNT SANDY"  

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