In an old carriage with shabby partitions and faded curtains, I’m traveling on a train from Kharkiv to Uzhhorod in the identical cabin as a soldier returning home for a brief but longed-for vacation. His wife and youngsters have found temporary shelter in a land saturated with pain and fear.
Yesterday, this soldier bought his daughter a small puppy. Now, he plays with it like a toddler, hugging and kissing it as if he has found a ray of sunshine on this tiny creature. In a couple of days, he’ll return to the hell of war, and the puppy will remind his daughter of her father’s love.
The soldier is about 30, with a weathered, tanned face. He has scars on his legs and arms and deep wrinkles near his eyes. He naps nervously, anxiously, like almost everyone who has returned from the frontline.
Sometimes, he falls right into a deep sleep and starts snoring loudly as if attempting to drown out the memories of explosions and cries of pain. And when he isn’t snoring yet still asleep, he shouts orders as if he were back in the course of a battle.
At certainly one of the stations, when the rattle of the wheels and the squeaks of the worn-out railway automotive have subsided for a moment, a sublime woman of medium height in a blue tracksuit flies out of the neighboring cabin. She’s about 35, and once upon a time, she will need to have driven men crazy together with her beauty. But now her face is haggard, with deep shadows under her eyes.
Bursting into our compartment, she cries out to me, “Tell him to stop snoring! Right now! What are you me for?”
I look up from my laptop screen and calmly reply, “Keep your voice down; please don’t shout. Don’t wake him up.”
Clearly unhappy with my response, she retreats to her own berth.
Half an hour passes. The soldier wakes up, goes to the vestibule to smoke, and takes the puppy with him.
I hear the girl coming out of her cabin again. I meet her within the corridor, take a look at her beautiful yet drained face, still marked with irritation, and say what has been running through my mind all this time: “You can’t get up a soldier who’s coming home from frontline hell for a brief vacation, even when he snores like a bear. Let him plunge into this healing sleep, protected from explosions and screams.”
The woman clamors, “I can’t rest when he snores! And I even have my very own personal front….” But then her voice breaks as she begins to tremble.
I reply gently, sensing that her response reflects a pain and tragedy of its own. “We are usually not under a hail of bullets.”
The woman freezes; her eyes are full of tears which are about to spill out. She looks out the window and bites her lip.
After some time, the soldier returns from the vestibule, a slight smile on his exhausted face. The woman looks at me pleadingly as if asking me not to inform him about our conversation. She approaches him and says something concerning the puppy, gently stroking the little creature as she takes its paws in her palms and kisses them gently.
The soldier enters our cabin, softly closes the door, and lies right down to rest again.
The woman turns to me, her eyes two lights of longing and pain. She whispers, barely audibly, “Forgive me. My husband was killed within the winter. I miss his snoring at night a lot! I’m going to my mother; I can’t live alone anymore.”
Her words contain the pain of the entire country—the pain of each broken woman’s heart. And while the old train keeps rattling along, carrying each of us in our own thoughts, memories, and hopes, I’m silently praying:
For those that are on the frontline, like this soldier.
For this woman and the irreparable lack of her beloved one.
For the chance to live and love again without war, which got here to our land to sow death and destruction.
I pray for just peace in Ukraine:
For the healing of the injuries in our souls—of the soldiers, civilians, and volunteers who’ve experienced deep trauma.
For bridging the gaps between us.
For unity in diversity.
And the train keeps rushing along, giving us precious moments of rest—and humanity—amid the chaos of war.
…
[One week later]
Today, I woke up again with my heart torn in two. Shelling, deaths, and propaganda go on and on, day and night. I’m bored with sharing our day by day nightmare on this war diary.
This terrible Russian war appears to be sucking the very life out of us. Every day, we observe an ocean of human suffering, rivers of tears, and mountains of destroyed lives. And somewhere in my soul, a traitorous thought creeps in: God, where are you? Why are you silent? Do you actually not care?
I remember how Jesus cried out on the cross, “My God, my God, why have you ever forsaken me?” (Mark 15:34).
Now I understand his pain—perhaps only 0.000001 percent. But I need to imagine, like Job, that my Savior lives and that on the last day, he’ll raise us from the dust (Job 19:25–26). I cling to this hope like a drowning man to a life-saving float.
And then there may be this black hatred that comes up in my throat like bile. After every shelling, after every news of Russian atrocities, my heart is full of a thirst for revenge. Oh, how I hate them! I need to scream just like the psalmist, “Happy is the one who seizes your infants and dashes them against the rocks” (Ps. 137:9).
And then a still, small voice whispers, “But I let you know, love your enemies” (Matt. 5:44).
How is that this possible, Lord? How can we love torturers and murderers?
But I do know that if I let hatred seize my heart, I’ll develop into like them, after which evil will win. Love for enemies is my Garden of Gethsemane, my bloody battle. It is the one way I can remain human.
This infinite exhaustion, this spiritual desert—my “volunteer marathon” is a carrying of the cross. I fall under the load of other people’s pain, and there isn’t a end in sight. Will I even have enough strength? Will I break down like Peter, who promised to follow Jesus to the top but denied him before the rooster crowed?
Lord, I pray like Paul that your grace will likely be sufficient for me, that your power will likely be perfect in my weakness (2 Cor. 12:9).
And then there are these thoughts: I’m not like others! I achieve this much. I sacrifice a lot on this civilian life and ministry!
And then I stop myself: Do you’re thinking that that your righteousness is larger than that of the scribes and Pharisees? (Matt. 5:20).
All my good works are but filthy rags before the holiness of God (Isa. 64:6). All I even have is his undeserved gift. So, down with pride, Taras. Serving is a privilege, not a merit.
And how often I find myself judging my brothers in faith—in each Ukraine and the West. But who am I to guage one other’s servant? (Rom. 14:4). Each of us has our own Calvary. My job is to hold my personal cross—after which lend a shoulder to those that fall under their burdens, like Simon of Cyrene on the Via Dolorosa.
But the worst thing is whenever you realize that within the whirlwind of your ministry, you could have forgotten the most important thing: your relationship with the Stranger on the road to Emmaus. Prayers have became dry, short reports with figures and requests. The Word of God has develop into an unopened book with too many painful questions.
I work hard, but have I develop into a contemporary Martha who cares for a lot of things but forgets the ”one thing” that’s mandatory—to sit down on the feet of Jesus, forgetting about job descriptions (Luke 10:41–42)?
Forgive me, Lord! Without you, I’m nothing. The source of my life is in you.
How unbearably painful this contradiction is typically: I like my country to the core, every bit of land. But at the identical time, I do know that my true homeland is in heaven, from which I’m waiting for the Savior (Phil. 3:20). What do the borders of earthly states mean within the face of eternity? “There isn’t any Gentile or Jew, circumcised or uncircumcised, barbarian, Scythian, slave or free, but Christ is all, and is in all” (Col. 3:11).
Even if my body is handed over to be burned for Ukraine, if I don’t have the love of Christ, I’m nothing (1 Cor. 13:3). Sometimes, amid the hell of war, I need to flee into sweet oblivion—to not think, not to recollect, to live sooner or later at a time.
But then your Spirit jogs my memory, Seek first the dominion of God and his righteousness (Matt. 6:33).
For what’s our life? A vapor that appears for a moment and disappears (James 4:14). Every day is usually a step toward eternity, where God will wipe away every tear from our eyes, and death will likely be no more. There will likely be no more sorrow, no more crying, no more pain (Rev. 21:4).
Although the entire world and politics cries out to us just like the movie title, “Don’t look up! Don’t look up!”—we must look up.
And how often we must wrest joy from the teeth of despair—to fight for hope in a battle with hopelessness. It is really easy to offer up. But doesn’t the dominion of God belong to children (Matt. 19:14), like that boy and girl who smiled at me from under the rubble of a ruined house? Where did they get this fierce strength of spirit?
I, too, must shine forth to a war-torn world. Let them see my joy and glorify my Father in heaven (Matt. 5:16).
The path is narrow, and the gate that results in life is small (Matt. 7:14). Every step of our life and ministry in Ukraine is a battle. The enemy is external, but even stronger are the interior demons that cry out, “Taras, don’t look up!”
Every selection is a risk. Did Christ promise us a cloudless life? No! He warned, “In me you’ll have peace. In this world you’ll have trouble. But take heart! I even have overcome the world” (John 16:33). How, Lord, can this be true?
And yet I decide to imagine, despite …
To serve, despite …
To sow seeds of goodness in my soil scorched by hatred, despite …
To be a light-weight on this oppressive, almost physical darkness, despite …
Because I do know that sooner or later, there will likely be no shadow, no trace of war, only light, only peace, only love.
One day.
Peace be with you, and keep your kids away from war.
Taras Dyatlik coordinates seminary-based refugee hubs in Ukraine and serves as a theological education consultant for Scholar Leaders and Mesa Global in Eastern Europe and Central Asia. Click here to affix his WhatsApp community.
