At one point, some ministers from the USA came to visit and preach in the church that was founded after some of their earlier crusades. One afternoon, I went with them in the church van to have lunch at a nearby restaurant.
When we were leaving the restaurant, we noticed one of the tires on the van had been slashed with a knife. Looking around to see who could have done such a thing... I saw a little band of street kids hiding behind bushes. Part of the adventure of slashing the tire must have been waiting to see the reaction of the owners!
Against the warnings of the people with me, I rushed over to the kids. The others with me said, "Don't go over there! They will jump you and cut you! Stop!" Some of the children had scattered to wait a little further away, but one of them was bold enough to stand and face me. He was a tiny little guy. Not wearing a shirt, I could count all his ribs. There were tons of kids who lived on the streets of Siberia. They lived daily lives of mischief, survival and petty crimes. They managed to stay just outside the reaches of the police to avoid being assigned to one of the many orphanages.
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| Typical group of street kids... |
So here I was facing this little dude with his knife. I knew enough of the Russian language to begin a simple conversation. He was shocked. This day had taken a turn he didn't expect...
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| Kids were always smoking... usually cigarette butts found on the street. |
The others in his gang came out of hiding and stood with him--their curiosity to meet me was greater than their fear that kept them hiding.
I asked him, "Do you want a clean heart?" "What??" he asked. "Do you want a clean heart? God can give you a clean heart and He wants to be your friend. Invite Him to live in you, give you a clean heart and He will build a house in heaven for you!" He had a knife to make his point. So did I.
"Yes!" they all said. My goodness, they were so dirty. There was no indication they had had a bath -- ever.
I prayed with them and they traded dirty hearts for new, clean hearts.
I invited them to church the next day and they said they would be there. I was hoping my language was accurate enough to tell them when and where. Some with me said they were cons and liars. (Yeah, well, don't try to kid a kidder.)
Walking back to join my group, I hear the leader screaming, "MY NAME IS ROMA!"
I looked back at him. His bony chest pushed up to the sky...determination on his face...fists for hands.
"MY NAME IS ROMA!"
What bravery and strength! The touch of God changed a heart from a petty tire slasher who hid in the bushes to a young man who screams his name for all to hear.
"MY NAME IS ROMA!" I think his name is all he owned.
"MY NAME IS MARCIE!" Oh, how he smiled. We just gave each other something.
The next day, guess who was in church...clothed...and with all his rat pack friends? ROMA.
They sat on a row of chairs behind me; well-behaved and grinning when I looked at them. (I have no idea how many times I turned around and beamed a smile at my new little brothers! I couldn't help myself!)
At the end of the service, Roma had a gift for me. He had fashioned a heart from an aluminum paper clip. It is my treasured possession.
I love to think about that day when God screamed in the Siberian streets,
"MY NAME IS JESUS!"
"MY NAME IS JESUS!"
He keeps on pulling souls out of hiding, gives them identity and makes them known.
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