I was three years old, sleeping in my crib in Timisoara, Romania. It was the mid-1980s, deep in the grip of communist oppression.

Life in communist Romania was marked by a forty-two-year stretch of poverty, food shortages, misery, and suppression. If you were a person who spoke up against the regime with anti-communist sentiment, you would be beaten or jailed for years. Trying to escape to nearby Hungary would get you executed.

The basics of life were controlled through the rationing of resources. People could only bathe at certain times when hot water was made available. Gas and electricity were controlled, and with bitter cold temps, people struggled to keep warm during Romania's long winters.

I vaguely remember waiting hours in line with my grandma to buy fish, only to get to the front of the line and be told, "Sorry, no more today." The quota had been met.

My father had simply "had it." After counting the cost, the reward was greater than the risk, so he and my mom decided to flee. The prospects of a better life were worth fleeing the governmental control where basic resources, such as gasoline and even oranges, were hoarded.

One of my aunts was so excited after being able to buy a single orange that she came over to our place to share it with her son and me. Yes, just one orange. We live in a country where any grocery store has shelves full of oranges you can buy for a few bucks, but what a joy it was to eat a single orange cut four ways.

The Night They Left

While playing in my grandma's backyard one day, I came up to her and said, "Mommy's crying." It was perhaps my first moment that began linking in my little mind that something changed, even though I didn't know exactly what.

As a parent, I can't imagine what it would be like to leave my children in the middle of the night, not knowing whether I would see them again. If I'm traveling for business more than a couple of days, my heart aches for them, and I could never imagine being away for over two years.

My mom shared how during the middle of the night they looked at me sleeping in my crib, yet without saying a word they knew there was a chance they would never see me again. If caught, they would face certain jail time or even death.

The next morning, I woke up to no mommy and daddy. For a small child, life continued on as usual. As long as I had toys and food, I was good. But the story was just beginning for my parents.

The Escape

After making their silent goodbyes, mom and dad fled from Romania with the assistance of a getaway car to Yugoslavia. Their first attempt was a bust. The outgoing Romanian border security did not let them through.

This was a crucial decision point for them: should they turn back and scrap the whole plan or keep going? Instead of going back, they decided to hide in a ditch from 9 p.m. to 6 a.m. and wait until the guards changed to get through. The plan worked.

Once their photos were taken and fake passports created, the journey shifted to get to the Austria/Yugoslavia border. The caveat was getting through the border checks—four in total. Calm on the exterior but trembling with fear on the inside, they handed their fake passports to border security.

Questions went through their minds: "What if we don't get in? What if they catch us?" The goal was quietly getting through so that they could make it to the refugee camps and gain temporary asylum on the path toward freedom. The plan worked.

Life in the Refugee Camps

My parents made it to Traiskirchen, the largest refugee camp in Vienna, Austria. Since the 1950s, the camp has helped many people from all over the world on their quest for freedom.

During their stay, there were numerous stabbings, rapes, and murders. My mom likened their stay to a horror movie. The conditions were dangerous.

At that point, they were living in the gap. The gap is the place from where you are to where you want to be. They were in a hostile refugee camp environment but had a vision for a land that was an ocean away. They had to embrace the gap, but also keep moving.

During that time, the locals wrote "Aus Ausländer," which is German for "out foreigners," on the sidewalk directly in front of the boarding house. Over a year into the journey, the pressure was really adding up. Arguments and fear were the norm.

The People Who Made a Way

Here's the irony in all this: it was God's people who provided for my parents. They were the ones who made a way.

During that time, the Red Cross partnered with churches who had refugee ministry programs within their congregations. It was Christians who decided to bring the kingdom of heaven to earth and be a church on the move.

Wesley United Methodist Church of Concord, New Hampshire, provided my parents with an apartment, clothes, food, a vehicle, money, and a job. They did what Jesus said in Matthew 25:35-36: "For I was hungry and you gave me something to eat, I was thirsty and you gave me something to drink, I was a stranger and you invited me in, I needed clothes and you clothed me."

I owe the people of Wesley United Methodist Church a world of gratitude. Their investment into the kingdom of God was an investment into my salvation.

The Reunion

Once my parents settled in Michigan, they made arrangements to have a flight attendant escort me from Romania, through all my connecting flights, and meet my dad in New York.

When I arrived, my dad called out to me, but I didn't even notice. I had no idea whose voice was calling my name. After boarding my final flight with my dad to go home to Detroit, the experience was similar for my mom when we met—joyful exuberance for her and a blank stare from me.

I didn't know them.

With nothing to their names, they left. With nothing to my name, I came.

What I Learned

The main problem lingered: I didn't know them, and I didn't trust them. They were away from me for two years at such a young age. I didn't call them mom or dad for over two weeks. I kept them at arm's length. I would often run away and hide under the bed where they couldn't reach me.

It was a process to get to a place where I could love them with my whole heart. Even now as I've matured, I find my love for them growing—no reluctance, no expectations, but a greater sense of appreciation and deep respect for their sacrifice.

Years later, I realized something profound: my parents' suffering—and mine—had a purpose I couldn't see at three years old.

Their refugee journey brought me to America where I met my wife (who invited me to youth group), positioned me to hear the gospel and accept Jesus, gave me a story that connects with people in ways comfort never could, and opened doors that would have stayed closed in communist Romania.

What was intended for separation, God used for salvation. What looked like abandonment was actually assignment.

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