We’ve always believed that the heart of God beats strongest where there is hunger—spiritual, emotional, or physical. And sometimes, when you’re willing to step into the unknown, He invites you into moments that will forever mark your life. This was one of those moments. Years ago, Lois and I were blessed to minister in Ukraine. It was more than a trip—it was an unfolding of God’s love for a people who had faced hardship, held on to hope, and whose faith was as deep as the soil they worked. What we witnessed there was raw, beautiful, and unforgettable.

Our time in Kyiv began with familiar faces and old friends. Pastor Patricia Schroeder, who helped organize the first Catch the Fire conference in Ukraine, met us at the airport with flowers in hand and a kind smile that welcomed us like family. A large van took us to the mission house, which would become our temporary home.

The following evening, we headed to Brovary, northeast of Kyiv. Driving through the countryside was like stepping into a painting of harvest and heritage. Fields of corn and wheat danced in the breeze. Older women—resilient and sun-worn—sat beside the roads, selling tomatoes, corn, potatoes, and piles of watermelon. Their weathered faces reflected the same endurance we would later see in their worship.

When we arrived at the church, we were immediately introduced to another local pastor who humbly asked if we would come to pray for a young woman battling brain cancer. There was no hesitation. We climbed into a small, aging car with the girl’s sister and navigated rough roads pitted with potholes large enough to swallow the car if it should stray into one. The deeper we went into the countryside, the more we sensed the weight of this assignment.

We finally stopped beside a fenced-in yard where flowers bloomed vibrantly on one side and vegetables thrived on the other. Walking the stone path to the small farmhouse, I was struck by how well-kept everything was despite their modest means. Inside, the walls and ceiling were lined with floral wallpaper. Colorful cloths were draped over the chairs and table. Lace curtains softly filtered the sunlight. It was simple but deeply peaceful.

We were led to the room where the young woman lay. She was likely in her early twenties, far too young to be suffering so much. Her left eye was swollen shut, and her face bore the unmistakable marks of an aggressive cancer. Yet the moment we stepped inside, we sensed the presence of the Holy Spirit. There was a holiness there—quiet, tender, real. Lois took out a small bottle of oil, and we anointed her. We prayed—softly at first, then with the kind of compassion that only the Spirit can stir. Her mother sat silently at the foot of the cot, watching with tear-filled eyes. There was no dramatic moment of healing that day. But her nausea left. Her alertness returned. Something shifted. Not everything—but something.

As we left, I turned back one more time. It wasn’t just about the girl. It was about the nearness of God to the brokenhearted. His love hovered in that room, lingering long after we said “amen.” It’s a scene Lois and I will never forget. That—I believe—is the heart of the Father.

             Psalm 34:18 tells us, “The Lord is close to the brokenhearted and saves those who are crushed in spirit.” That young woman may not have stood to walk that day, but the Healer had met her. We returned to the church just as worship began to fill the air. It poured through every crack and crevice like incense rising before the throne. What struck us immediately was the incredible skill of the worship team. It was more than music; it was intercession wrapped in melody.

That night, the church was full—four congregations had gathered: two Pentecostals, one Methodist, and the Victory Church, which hosted the gathering. The unity was beautiful. These churches didn’t just tolerate one another; they worshipped together, laughed together, cried together. I’d been told Ukrainians were stoic and hard to read. But that night, even the elders—along with the beloved babushkas—laughed and wept openly as we shared stories of the Father’s love. There is no armor strong enough to resist the Spirit’s embrace when love is genuine.

The ministry time was unlike anything we’d expected. The altar, the aisles, the platform—every open space was filled with people lying in the presence of God. Since we were in a theater and the chairs were bolted down, there was little room to move, but that didn’t stop the Holy Spirit from moving. We stood in the narrow aisles and prayed for one person after another, sometimes laying hands on shoulders, sometimes simply speaking peace into tired hearts.

The Weight of the Glory

The pastors and their wives came forward. Many of them fell to the ground, overcome by the tangible weight of God’s love. These were leaders, some battle-worn, others just tired. And that night, they rested in the arms of the One who had called them. Mark 6:31 says, “Come with me by yourselves to a quiet place and get some rest.” I believe that’s what happened that evening, not just for us—but for every pastor, every elder, every weary heart in the room.

After the meeting, we were invited to the pastor’s office nearby. Though the facilities were primitive—the town had no proper sewer system—we were treated with such dignity and honor. The pastor was so proud of his desk, even though two of the legs had bricks under them to keep the table steady. The food they served us was anything but plain. It was prepared with great care, and the conversation around the table was rich with vision and gratitude. We felt like royalty, not because of our title or status, but because of the love they showered upon us so freely.

Before we left, the pastor extended an invitation to return. He wanted to host a city-wide conference the following spring and hoped we would help lead it. We said yes.

John 13:35 reminds us, “By this everyone will know that you are my disciples, if you love one another.” That’s what we experienced in Ukraine—love that doesn’t require translation. Love that walks through fields weaves down broken roads, kneels beside a sickbed, and stands under worship-saturated ceilings. Love that reflects the heart of a Father who never forgets His children. As we write this, war once again rages in Ukraine. Cities are scarred, and lives are lost. But the memories of those moments, and the faces we prayed with remain etched in our hearts. We do not forget. And we pray you won’t either.

May we never lose sight of the real reason we go, whether it’s across the street or across the globe. May we always remember that borders, language, or circumstance do not limit Jesus. He is still healing and still calling and still walking among us—just as He walked the dusty roads of Galilee. May our hearts be moved again. For the hurting. For the nations. For the call to go—and love.

Blessings