Ogra Village

Day 6

We belted out the American songs playing over the Romanian radio station, quite  loudly, as we drove through downtown Targu Mures and past the surrounding towns. After a few sharp turns, the dust began to kick up after the wheels on our van as the paved roads turned to gravel, and then, to dirt. 

We made a final turn and drove down a brown dirt mixed with gravel road. Small shanties, with ideas of picket fences lining the edges of tiny yards, stood uncertainly on one side with the other side of the road was lined with brush and trees. 

At the sound of our engine, children appeared from everywhere. Slipping from the brush, running down the main road that cut the small village in half, pouring from houses, or slipping quietly from oblivion to observe while the others strained to wave, jump, and shout at the Americans.
I singled out a few of the ones pleading most for attention, and tried to engage the most withdrawn, by tapping on my window at them and waving. Smiles exploded and they waved back. The Americans are here! Here at our village!
We came to a halt and waited for the van with the rest of our team mates to arrive. Being separated by glass didn't deter the kids from attempting to soak up as much of our attention as they could.
You should leave your belongings here, our Romanian translator cautioned us. I mean, I don't want to be rude, but these kids are known as thieves.
As we climbed from the van, the wave of children hit us. The fact that most of us were strangers was of no importance.
As the wave of children hit, so did the smells. There was no escaping it. The stench of horse manure mingled with the smells of trash, this formed the overall smell of the town and added to the kids who simply smelled...unclean. Their faces that looked up to smile, and hands that stretched to hold ours were caked in dirt, sticky with different substances, and some, smelled strongly of feces.

We were visiting Ogra today, a name that literally translates into ogre, a gypsy village which Livada ministers to.

They rushed to hug, pat, shake hands, or merely talk as fast as they could at us. 

Shouts of, "Cum te cheama?", "Cum te cheama?" "Ce mai faceti?" (How are you? What is your name?) filled the air. If you could answer those questions, a million others would take their place.

I tried out my broken Romanian sentences and butchered words to the children's great amusement. But they patted me anyway for my attempt. 

"Bine, bine!" They exclaimed.

As we mingled in a circle, the kids laughed and played, tugging at our clothes, begging to be chased. We set off on a grand tour of the village. Two little girls grabbed my hands and began to chatter away while a mischievous little boy squirted me with a water pistol and laughed hysterically at my exaggerated reaction of indignation. 

The tour included all of walking down the main street until houses no longer lined the side, then turning back.

With a grand shout, the kids began to beg for games, so tramping through a ditch, we all began to clamor through a small opening near on the street lined with brush and trees. Climbing through a broken fence, even the little ones came, showing skill for maneuvering the opening.

After following the winding path, which was riveted with ruts and and holes, we arrived at an open field in which stood a stark soccer goal frame, a dirt middle, and small trees on the grass edging this playground of sorts.

The next hour consisted of as much as was physically possible.

"Raţa, raţa, gasca!" (duck, duck, goose) was followed by a game similar to Simon Says.

After the structure came the sweet chaos. As many times as I could lift one child into the air and spin around, ten more would be next shouting for a turn. Piggy back rides, tree climbing, and lessons on how to count were also in order for me as my team and I were pulled into different corners of the big field.One girl gravitated towards me who stuck out a little. She was a bit taller than the little ones, she was older, not easy to lift, was especially grimy, and as she propelled herself onto my back, the smell of her waste, which she had not wiped away and had seeped through her leggings, hit me so strongly that my "American" stomach turned and I dropped to crouch in the dirt for a few moments as bile rose in my throat. 

I am ashamed, but my first thought as my stomach stilled and I looked up to her gaped smile again and out and upward stretched arms begging for a "horsey ride", was to immediately, but gently avoid physical contact and perhaps to just show her Jesus' love by smiling.

Again, my next thought brought me shame even as it formed. 

"We still don't have our luggage." 

I had just acquired a clean, white shirt. We would not be at home until the evening, so however I smelled after this, I would smell it all day. 

"Also, I may be dehydrated!" 

I considered as I pinched the back of my hand to see if my skin stayed together longer. We had run out of bottled water last night, and I had not drunk anything since. Yes, I shouldn't be lifting so many kids, I am parched. 

And I knew. As far as I have encountered in my life, these were the least of these.
It is hardly a sacrifice to love a child, or anyone, that is lovable. Even with these children, there were the "easy" ones to love. The smaller, more vulnerable looking ones tugged at my heart and were easy to shower with attention. The ones without snot dripping down their faces were easier to hug tightly, the smaller ones that clung to your legs, or the older ones which looked to you like you were "cool". The ones that make me feel good about loving, not the ones that leave me gross and wanting a shower all day.

It didn't matter. 

The least of these. 

To be born into the Roma (Gypsy) people group, in most countries, is to be subjected to a life marked by discrimination and poverty. Romania is no exception. Most of the kids have Gypsy, the word with connotations of beggar and thief, tattooed on their identity by the darker color of their skin. The few lighter ones would have better prospects in society, but that their names are distinctly Gypsy names. Of the eight hundred people living in the village of Ogra, seven of the men have steady jobs. The others depend on searching for day labor, and odd jobs. Even the Gypsy people that are able to rise above their circumstances turn to discriminate against these Gypsies.

In a moment, which seemed like an eternity to me, I processed and weighed my options. The girl waited as I  crouched down "catching my breath".

There would be showers and  bottles of sanitizer, hand wipies, and, eventually, changes of clothes, but this little girl was asking for love now. So as I rose and she climbed onto my back, the words of one of the long term missionaries I had talked with earlier that day came to mind, 

"Whatever you have give it. All the love, all the touch, attention, and kindness you have."

Give until you are spent. And the moment you are spent, as I was crouching in the dirt, pray that our Father, who loves us unconditionally regardless of our filth, will empower us in our weaknesses.

We climbed into the van a few hours later, every one of our white shirts varying shades of brown with hand prints on them, and me an especially interesting smell.

Nothing illustrates better the love of our Savior. Not fearful of our humanity, getting his holiness smudged, or acquiring the stench of sin, He reached out anyway, picked us up, and continues to hold us  with no hesitation, no option weighing on whether He should show us love or not, and tighter than I could have ever held that little girl.

Romania!

Salut from Romania!

We, my team and myself, have so much to be thankful for! We arrived safely Thursday morning and our days have been a flurry of activities ever since.
We have taken up residence in an old children's home called Casa Rene (in honor of the french man who donated it to Livada) which is in the middle of being renovated. 

For a girl hailing from Beaumont, the land of no inclines whatsoever, the view from our window is breathtaking.

There being a "mix up" at the airport, we arrived sans luggage, but in good spirits.
Also, my roomies are awesome.

Friday, we arose to sweep, mop, clean any surface we found,

 scrape newly tiled floors,

and practiced our skits and material for camp.

With occasional dance breaks, of course.

Oh, and we also ate copious amounts of food.

So, though tired and nasty from travelling with no options to be in anything else, God has provided more than we needed and gave us joy to have places to sleep and ah-ha-maz-zing Romanian food in our stomachs.