It is Holy Week, but for me it has been Holy Month. I have been in the air, on the sidewalks, in a Moldovan prison, a homeless ministry in Florida, a Ukrainian school, a French church, a Moldovan winery. Along the way there have protests and riots. My flights were cancelled, my heart can’t find its rhythm—-but the people. The holy. I must tell at least a piece of it here. (Especially to all those who prayed for this voyage!)

Moldova (which borders Ukraine). The first day, we go to a kindergarten for Ukrainian refugees. We bring new journals and hand them out. We write about compassion. We write to find healing.

The next day we drive an hour to the women’s prison. We file into the room where women meet each week for Bible Study and prayer. The guards calls this the “Miracle Room,” where so  many have met God. The women look like babushkas wearing not prison uniforms but their own clothes, bundled up against the spring cold, scarves around necks and heads. Some are missing teeth, a few are nearly blind. Who listens to these women? I tell them they have a God-given voice. We hand out floral journals and Tanya and I lead them in writing stories from their lives. One woman grabs my arm and doesn’t let go, weeping, praying she gets out of prison to see her mother’s face before her mother dies. They cannot believe Lindsey and I have come so far to be with them. They want to tell us everything. They talk and cry and whisper and laugh. We listen. As we leave a woman named Stacia hugs us deeply again and again and hands us a delicate card she has made for us. I know many stories of redemption will flow from this room. (Photo blurred to protect identities)

Saturday, a women’s retreat. After Agatha and Rosa come up to me. Rosa says, “I believe it. I believe that I  matter and that God is writing my story.” Agatha says,” God has been calling me to write a book for five years and now I know I can. Now I can start.”   A Roma woman, her face glowing tells me, “I want to help others with my story.”

Two more days of teaching, watching men and women write and share their stories of fathers, children, struggles, griefs, doubts and faith.

In Tanya’s flat, six of us eat polenta, sausage and sour cream around a tiny table, talking about the war on their border, about theology and the goodness of God. The days pass too quickly. My last night in Moldova, Svetlana, Tanya, Lindsey and I sip coffee at a French café, rehearsing all God has done. We cry. (Then we smile for the photo.)

Then France. I am weary, but Dara sits beside me and she loves speaking English. Soon I know her broken life story, her raging father, her ill brother. She says, “I don’t see the meaning of life. I was taught there is no god but I want something to live for.” So I tell her about Jesus, what it’s like to be loved and seen every moment. I tell her to read the gospel of John. She’s never touched a Bible. After the flight, when we hug and part, she tells me the river cruise ship she works on, “Come and see me!” So I do. The next day in Lyon Liz picks me up and together we find her boat. We find her. Dara and I laugh and hug. After a tour of the boat, when I remind her to keep seeking God she tells me, “When I moved into my room, there was a Bible sitting there on the dresser.”

Another class. Charlaine comes up to tell her hard story of assault. Everyone is writing and sharing their good and hard faith stories. I do not want to stop them; I don’t want to stop teaching. But finally I must. Riots are happening all over France and my flights are canceled and I must get out early, diverting to Geneva.

 And it will soon be Easter. I think of Jesus, weaving his way to the cross. Weaving because along the way two blind men call out to him as he passed and he turned and touched them whole. And the temple in Jerusalem will be filled with the sick, the mad, the disabled, the dying and he leans, he stoops, he rises, he turns and touches until every one is healed.           

He's moving toward the Place of the Skull, where he will die a dreaded death and he knows it but there are the desperate to heal along the way first. He will heal them twice. The first time with his touch. The next, with his body staked against the tree.

I am one of the healed. So I follow him which sometimes means a criss-cross path across continents. For Angela and Luminita and Svetlana it means driving 4-6 hours on winding roads to gather with a handful of eager women in a small village to share God’s word, then driving all the way back in the dark. It means driving to the prison every week and meeting the women in the Room of Miracles. It’s Tanya and Sandu helping Ukrainian families across the border. It’s the staff at the homeless ministry in Florida turning and pouring out their lives for those who do not even own a cup.

It’s just what Jesus said would happen. Hammered to the cross, he takes the words of Psalm 22 on his lips, beginning with a ragged lament, “My God, My God, why have you forsaken me?” Just before his final breath, he utters these words:

Future generations will be told about the Lord.
 They will proclaim his righteousness,
    declaring to a people not yet born that    

“He has done it!”

Jesus has done it indeed. Because of him, two thousand years later, each day, around the world, tens of thousands with beautiful feet are doing it: walking a weaving path to bring good news to those who know only bad news.

 Friends, this is what he died for. This is what he rose from the grave for.

So don’t lose heart. Keep to the criss-cross path. So many are dying to live. Love them and show them how.

Dear Ones, Oh there is SO much to share from this trip, but this is all the space and time I have. But now it’s your turn! How are you living out the resurrection of Jesus? (And what keeps you, us, from doing this more?)