Evazatu and Its Pictures of Poverty

“Mine eye affecteth mine heart.”—Lamentations 3:51a

What follows was part of a newsletter I emailed home to my family and friends, on occasion, while I was a Peace Corps volunteer in Romania. This was written about eight and a half years ago, and this particular newsletter was about the gypsy community who my church ministered to in Onesti (pronounced “oh-nesht”). I decided to keep this article written in the present tense. The verse above is an apt summary of how God used these pictures of poverty to affect my heart and teach me lessons that I continue to process today.

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EVAZATU is the name of the bloc apartment building (above) that is located across the street from the church I am a member of while I lived in Romania. What distinguishes it from the other blocs (as these Communist-era buildings are called) in Onesti is the fact that it houses mostly gypsies. It is also notoriously known as the worst place in Onesti because it is also the location of many thieves and prostitutes, as well as individuals and families who just cannot afford to live anywhere else.

From what I know, the rent for a one-room apartment runs about 200,000 lei, or roughly $6 a month. There are one and two-room apartments, and as of the writing of this newsletter home, I have only seen what a one-room apartment looks like.

I have personally nick-named it the ghetto of Onesti. Many people are afraid to enter the bloc, as it is perceived, with validity, as a dangerous place.

For those familiar with the way many immigrants live together crammed into a small apartment or house in America, Evazatu’s brand of housing is no different. My friend and fellow church member, who is pictured below on the right holding her niece, lives in her room with her five sons, not to mention probably about 100 cockroaches. Two of her boys sleep on the bed/couch with her, and her other three boys sleep on the floor.

You can’t see it very well, but her “stove” is under that black pot of rice soup on the right in this photograph. It is a brick that is wrapped with a piece of metal coil that heats up when plugged in. This is a very dangerous contraption, having already caused a small fire, which burned her curtains in the background, and at the same time, it is a precious commodity, many in Evazatu having to share the use of one to cook their daily meals.

They have one sink in the room, which is also shown below, and that sink is the kitchen, bathroom, and laundry sink, all in one. Above her sink is her family’s “medicine cabinet.”

The toilets are shared in Evazatu and are located at the end of the halls (pictured below).

At the end of the halls garbage is swept into a pile, as if to keep it out of sight.

Many of the children and church members that go to my church live in Evazatu, so I have gotten to know some of its stories very well. Probably one of the saddest stories is about a four or five-year-old boy who would show up to church from time to time. His father has been in jail for a while, and his mom was just arrested for prostitution. He is terribly abused by his mother, the signs of which have been observed in my church frequently. He just stays with a neighbor (I hope), but he should be picked up by the state, as he no longer has parents that live there. He is treated like one of the stray dogs in Romania, abused by both children and adults that live in Evazatu. He loves my dear friend and sister in Christ, who teaches the children’s class at my church, and who also gave him a piece of her cake the night before writing this. It was probably the best thing he ate that day. I have reported him to the authorities, and now we are just waiting, and praying, that he will be cared for soon.

It is my opinion that poverty looks the same everywhere, and Evazatu is only one glimpse into its face—the poor being always with us.

“For ye have the poor with you always, 

and whensoever ye will ye may do them good.”—Mark 14:7a

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UPDATE: Many years later, while I was settling back into my American life, tragedy struck the family I featured in this update. There was a fire in her apartment in which two children died, one of whom I know was her youngest son at the time I lived there. We may never understand fully why such tragedies happen, but I thank God that He can turn the ashes of our lives into beauty and that He has faithful servants throughout the world able to minister to the needs of the communities they have been called to serve. The biggest need—salvation in our Lord Jesus Christ.

The little boy in the middle was the one who died in the fire.
One of his brothers is on the left, and his mother on the right.

Yet I Will Trust Him

 “He trusted in the LORD God of Israel; so that after him was none like him among all the kings of Judah, nor any that were before him. For he clave to the LORD, and departed not from following him, but kept his commandments, which the LORD commanded Moses. And the LORD was with him...”—2 Kings 18:5-7a

“Though he slay me, yet will I trust in him: 

but I will maintain mine own ways before him.”

—Job 13:15

Several Thanksgiving's ago, when I was in Romania, there was a terrible accident that happened to my pastor's family there. They were cutting wood with a planer, and the daughter's mitten had gotten stuck in the planer. As a result, her hand wound up going through it, too. The mother had called me to explain the accident, and I remember being stunned at the turn of events. Soon after, the family went to the states to get the physical care needed to restore as much of the daughter's hand as possible. There was much good that happened as a result of this tragic event in this family, and for me personally, it was a moment in my Christian life where I experienced Job 13:15, “Though he slay me, yet I will trust in him.” I remember God giving me this verse at the time, as my heart, as well as the heart of the church family there, was heavy with sorrow for them. Yet, God spoke to me this verse to comfort me, but also as a request to still trust Him, despite circumstances. The family certainly displayed this characteristic of Job during this trial.

Yet, there is another element to trusting God, persevering in doing right despite the difficulties that may come. Our difficulties may not even be the result of doing right, but simply a turn in the road God has foreordained. While such a turning can lead one to give up on God and His ways, Hezekiah and Job showed us in these Scriptures how we should continue to trust in God and to continue to maintain our walks before Him.

He is pure, where we are not. He knows the end from the beginning, when we don't. We often fail, and He never fails. We are to trust Him, no matter what.

I think of my own walk. How that little things can easily persuade me to slacken in my walk with God. I view others and what I see God doing or not doing in their lives, and wonder, is it worth the effort? This godly living. This passion for purity before the Lord.

Then I think of His sweet fellowship and times of refreshing communion. I know that if I resist Him and His leading in my life, the sweetness of my relationship with Him is less. I know He loves me the same yesterday, today and forever, but because I am but flesh, I feel the ups and downs of my closeness with Him because of the way I react to the events of my day. The way I trust Him or don't trust Him.

Lord, You are so gracious to us, and we don't even know just how much so. You are patient with our frailties, when we are not patient with our own. You love us, despite ourselves. For that I am so grateful. Thank You for this lesson in trust, and please, my Savior, help me to persevere despite the turns in the road, so that our communion will be sweet in the good times and the bad times.

“I will trust in the mercy of God for ever and ever.”—Psalm 52:8b

Damaged Gypsy Home in Conti, Romania
Taken after the Flood of 2005
(August 2005)

Five Minute Friday: Red

I know I've written about her before, even on my blog. But her eyes stand out and always will. I can only be in awe of the depth of the look she gave me those years ago, after the “great” flood of Onesti, when my church family went to give a puppet Bible lesson to all the children in her village. She stunned me with her look and behind her was a boy, barely older than her looking off into the distance at just the right moment, when my finger touched the button that set in motion their capture on my camera.

That red sweater. How old was it? Where did it come from? Was it in the dumpster behind one of the many bloc apartment buildings when mom or dad went scavenging for anything of value to keep their family fed? I didn't look that closely, but I imagine it was frayed and filthy, nothing like the beauty of her face … of her innocence.

It was that look in her eyes that captivated me before, and it will always be the look in her eyes that keeps my attention in the years to come. She was beautiful. This little girl. A gypsy. An innocent.

Miora (Conti, Romania)
July 2005

Parable of Tom

The story that follows is something I experienced when I was living in Romania as a Peace Corps volunteer in October 2005.  I was very heavy-hearted by the “give-me” mentality that existed among the poor there. The translation of the American “Mister, can you spare a dime?” or some other request for money among our homeless is “da-mi,” which literally means “give me.” The way it comes across was very abrasive to my American sensibilities, and I was so tired of being seen as a “bancomat,” the Romanian word for an ATM machine. Even strapping, young men, who were able-bodied, would recognize I was a foreigner and say, “da-mi.” I wanted to give to true needs, and without manipulation, but it was often not presented to me in that way. I believe God was teaching me something through that experience, and that is something I’m still processing today. That is the background for this “tale” you are about to read.

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There was this kind of alley cat I saw perched on the trash bin outside my apartment, while I was walking home the other night. I recognized him right away. I had seen him before, and in my mind, I remarked about him in much the same way as I had when I first saw him—boy, he looks like he’s been through a lot. As I was walking past his perfect profile on the bin, I thought that he would have made a great photograph, even a classic portrait of sorts. I stopped and looked at him more closely. I saw he had a very soft outline surrounding his body by the sun’s last rays. I saw that he had an ear that probably was deformed by a dog bite years ago. I just thought he looked cool.

So, I walked upstairs to my apartment.  Once in my apartment, I decided to take my camera to go outside and take his picture. I figured if it was God’s will that I am to take the photograph, he will still be in that same pose … or at least out there.

He wasn’t in his same pose on that garbage bin, unfortunately, but he was at least still out there. I saw him digging through the garbage looking for food, in much the same way a gypsy or a homeless drunk scavenges for hidden treasure through everyone’s refuse. I began whispering the pee-see, pee-see, Romanians do when they call for cats. It is their term of endearment rooted in the Romanian word for cat, pisica. It’s like our “here kitty, kitty.” He popped his head up out of the garbage and I started shooting off some pictures.

Onesti, Romania (October 2005)

They were not what I really wanted because the pose I really wanted was the one I had observed some five minutes before. But I kept shooting photos anyway. I walked closer to him to get a better shot. After a few more pictures, he came completely out of the garbage and walked toward me on the ledge. I thought, I better be careful or I’m going to scare him off. I took some more pictures, and finally, he jumped down. I thought to myself that he’s going to be one of those skittish cats, and run away, as if he was startled by me, or something else he had heard. Instead, he came near me, as if he wanted a pet.

Now, let me explain to you how he looked beyond the photographs. He didn’t look like an old cat. He was probably in his twenties in cat years. He was of the orange-striped variety and was very skinny. His fur was matted in many locations across his body, and his tail, although perfectly intact, was also unusually thin. He looked like he had some bumps on him from being hit or run over or who knew what else, under his fur, and when you touched them, those bumps were very hard. His eyes were a beautiful green, and he really had a perfectly-shaped face. A beautiful nose. And that very strange half-eaten left ear. Some mud-caked hair stuck out from the inside of his other ear. His toes, while wonderfully formed, were dirty with the city of Onesti. He looked like he could have been a gorgeous house cat, had anyone cared to adopt him before he began looking the way he did then.

 I thought twice before petting him, knowing there was probably a colony of fleas on him, one of those fleas more than willing to jump on me and start another colony in my house. However, my heart softened as he kept trying to come to me for affection. It’s almost like he had forgotten the routine of getting a pet. I melted, and I began to pet him.  I wondered if he would bite me or scratch me because he was not used to being touched. He didn’t do either of those things. Instead, in his soundless meow, he asked for more of my touches. He even lifted his front paws off of the ground as if to reach up to my hand. I was softened by his desire for love.

I began to think that he was probably hungry and wished that I hadn’t eaten my leftover tuna fish for breakfast that morning. However, I thought about the milk I had bought and decided to bring that out to him to drink. I go back into my house, thinking how it was so much easier to give to an animal than another human being. At least I could know beyond a shadow of a doubt this cat’s hunger was real, and he was not begging me for it. I felt this sense of freedom to be able to show kindness to another living thing that was just between me and him. No guilt or pity of mine being manipulated … just this moment in which I could give just because I wanted to. I’m not doing a great job of explaining this, but for the sake of time, I will go on.

In my house, I found something I could leave outside that could hold milk. I poured some milk into it and filled another small container in case he wanted more. I walked back outside and saw he was right where I had left him the second time—where I was petting him.

I put the milk down, and he came almost immediately to it and began drinking. I was crouched down on the ground, and I felt that there was this circle around us. I became absorbed in his drinking. A thought occurred to me that some of my students, as well as some of my neighbors, might see me and that they would all think I was a little crazy to put this much effort into a cat that wasn’t even cute. But I didn’t care. I felt this circle around us, and I trusted that it would keep others away from my moment. He drank non-stop until a big wind blew a couple of bags down onto the ground from the garbage bin. He was startled and moved away from the milk. I picked the bags up and began talking to him in English, as if he could understand me, and told him it was okay. I began to feel like I wanted to stand there as long as it took for him to finish drinking. I wanted to protect him. I wanted to be his circle.

Then, I looked at him and thought he could probably defend himself. He had already been through so much. And that’s when something began to happen in my mind. I began to look at him and transfer his life onto a human being in this world who had also been through a lot. Someone who had sin’s scars all over their body. Someone who had been damaged over time, abandoned by friends and loved ones, and was tough because they’ve had to be. Someone who you’d look at and say, this person can handle themselves. Someone who you’d think wouldn’t be very affectionate, but as you got to know them, you began to see who God had intended them to be. Someone who craved love and pleasant things to happen to them … Someone who never thought they’d be an outcast in this world, with mud caked inside their ears, with battle scars and bruises all over their body … someone with a perfectly shaped face and eyes that reveal so much more than their words were willing to say.

I began to feel sorrow for those people who end up drug addicts, who wind up in the sex industry, most of them sold into it when they were too immature to choose that life for themselves and who are so caught up in it now, that they feel it’s too late to change. I began to feel sorrow for those individuals the world leaves behind, the true children of need.

I was grateful for these thoughts God spoke to my heart about in this very strange moment with a cat, of all creatures.

Then, he was done. He lifted up his head, and I noticed his whiskers were heavy with milk. Not even finishing the seconds I had given him, he began to walk to an open spot in between some grass. He stopped for a moment, and without even looking back to the garbage bin, to the milk, or to me, he rushed off as if he had another appointment, and he did so in an even-paced stride, not stopping for anything or anyone. I wondered where he was going.

I thought to myself, that this was such an interesting moment in my life. A gift given and a gift received. I named him Tom in my mind as I walked back to my apartment.

I think, yes, Tom. Because he really is a tomcat.

Beaten up, dirty, damaged, hungry, and perfect.

Onesti, Romania (October 2005)

The Road Less Traveled

Sometimes treasures are found in the rereading of our history. I came across one treasure the other day in this poem I wrote below in 2007. For background, it is an overview of my years waiting for a husband and hopefully a family of my very own and how God did not let me wait idle! He definitely kept my feet moving.

Nearly three years after this was written, I got married, and nearly two years after that, our daughter was born. Although I reference many places, I decided to just include two photographs of the girls I mention by name in this poem. My prayer is this blesses you in some way today. --Cassy

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The road less traveled

Is the one I find myself on

Here a little

There a little

Rounding the corner to find …

My destiny?

My purpose in God’s hands

I look there and see a little bit of Asia

Of Cambodia and her religious ruins and killing fields

Of Viet Nam and leftovers of a war my dad fought

Of Laos and her beautiful land

And of Thailand where I first heard my missionary call

I see a little bit of Europe

Of Romania and her “Asta Este”*

Of Romanian students trying so hard to grow up

In a world they know little about

Of Gypsies

And their flamboyant colors and naughtiness

All exaggerated in the lens of my camera

Gifts

Given

Gifts

Received

Miora’s eyes

And Sorina’s hot pink flower

In her hair

Complimenting the stare

Now immortalized in pixels on a print

In a frame on my wall

The road less traveled

I have been on since my life

Was yielded into His hands

At the age of 23

And there, in the midst of His creases and scars

Lies a map of His drawing

Of my journey with a Savior who spoils me

In taking me to places I never

Would have imagined

I’d travel.

 (Written 11-18-07)

*Asta Este means “It is what it is.” It is basically the Romanian version of the French saying “C’est la vie” or the American saying “That’s Life.”

Sorina (Onesti, Romania, in July 2005)

Miora (Onesti, Romania, in July 2005)

Just Weights

“Just balances, just weights, a just ephah, and a just hin, shall ye have.”
Leviticus 19:36a

It has come to my attention tonight through a conversation I shared with friends today how that my balances may be a little uneven. I may have too much of something good in one of my cups of measurement, so that it eclipses the other good I have measured in the other cup. A little confused? Well, I think I am, too, but let me try to explain.

See, I have some rose-colored glasses on when it comes to the ministry work of my past. I have some recollections of fond memories from the church I belonged to in America. I see those experiences through the romance of my time of love with my Savior—you know, those beginning fires baby Christians get when they first give their lives to Jesus. Those fires many of us, including myself, struggle to stoke again.

In Romania, I see the church I am a member of here through another set of glasses. A set filled with cracks and scratches that have developed from falling on the ground too many times and from simple wear and tear. I see my Romanian church experiences through a pair of these glasses, where even reality is distorted just a little bit toward the negative.

So where does this idea of an unjust weight come in? Well, I think I may have one experience on a pedestal where it does not belong, bringing this time of my church experiences in Romania down lower than it deserves to be. There are other things put on this pedestal, as well, but suffice it to say, I am left with a very unbalanced perspective. And my sin in this? Well, perhaps this imbalance has given my heart over to worshipping an idol of sorts. The idol of “an ideal church” filled with “ideal people.” And this idol has been preventing me from falling in love with the people in this church as I ought. But most importantly, it has limited my fellowship with and love for my Savior Who needs to be the just measure from which all things are weighed anyway.

All I’m saying is, I was humbled tonight that perhaps I am a little off balance. That my vision needs to be healed. That my weights need to be remeasured.

Father, as the new year approaches, clear my vision, and help me get my balances right, so I may learn everything You have for me as this year ends and the new one begins.

Vietnam (Spring 2000)