Young Again in Romania

I guess you never know how "old" or "young" you are until you spend a week with young people ages 15-24, or until you realize that at 2/3 of a century you're the oldest person at camp. (It really doesn't help when you get your fractions mixed up and tell the kids you're three-quarters of a century old.) I finally got to prove myself on the volleyball court, where one of the Brits stated, "Frank, you're quite good at volleyball." That was almost as good as ibuprofen for the soreness from the court, the mountains, the walking and hiking, but very wisely, not from the soccer field. Strangely though, I'm not sure that you can call what was being played was actually volleyball. With the headers, and kicks, it more closely akin to volley-soccerball. It took a great deal of getting used to as on more than one occasion while going to the floor for a "dig," I came face to foot with extended leg. However, the blessings of seeing young men and women intensely focused on the Word of the Lord was an equally rewarding analgesic. In fact I wouldn't believe having seen these young people in the outdoors and in the pre-worship sessions indoors that they would ever be so attentive to an old man such as I. Having dealt with American young people through the years, it was an unexpected difference. The to see the word planted in the hearts of so many young people who had no church experience was probably as close of a replication as one can likely find here on earth of the scene of angels rejoicing.

The amazing way in which God allowed me this joy is a eulogy well worth iteration. (I use the term eulogy, because it comes from the Greek word eulogia which we translate "blessings" and it literally means "good word.") Early in the year I had expressed the idea of returning to Romania on mission. I began to pray, correspond, and explore expenses, all with the hope of being able to book a flight early enough to enjoy a break in airfare. However, as the year progressed, and without a reason (no invitation) to embrace, I watched the cost of airfare escalate to about $1300 to $1500. With those costs, and no apparent mission to embark upon, I advised the Lord in my prayers that I could only go if He provided, and I advised my family, church, and friends that I likely would not be going to Romania this year. When my aunt Hazel died in May, my cousin asked me to come assist with the memorial service, especially to sing. I drove to Wesley's in Asheville, and he and Chris joined me to go over to Kannapolis for the service. Wesley drove, so I was in the passengers seat, and we heard a notification tone from a phone. He asked me if I was going to check it, and I said my phone doesn't make that kind of sound. But I checked, and to my chagrin found that it does make that tone when notifying me of a contact on Messenger. The message was from a young friend, Lucian, who was asking me to come as camp pastor for their youth camp. The pastor they had lined up was unable to fulfill the obligation. Just the night before, I had checked ticket prices so that I might perhaps simply attend the camp, and the costs were prohibitive. I told Luci, I would let him know, that I needed to check. First, I checked prices, they were just over $800. Then I checked with both bosses, the one at home and the one at work. With their approval, I booked my flight. God had obviously just opened the door wide, and invited me to experience the joy of answered prayer.

By the way, you can read the full report on my website: fsgribble3.com