Lila

Several years ago, I had a dream. I was standing in a war-torn desert land. On either side of me were armies rushing at each other. Standing between them I looked to the heavens and cried out in deep intercession. I knew God wanted me to pray. The dream then transitioned to a seacoast where my husband and I were digging and pulling gems from the sand. God reminded me of this dream a couple of months ago when our team was praying together. We had been living in Azerbaijan for almost three years. The country had a history of war, and the rumors swirled that another uprising was in the near future.

In 1988, Armenia occupied 20 percent of Azerbaijan’s land and nearly a million Azerbaijani refugees fled; our city still houses around 100,000 them. The last war ended in 1994, but the bitter roots had grown deep into the hearts and culture of the Azerbaijanis. On September 27, 2020, we woke up to no internet. My husband and I went out for a breakfast date and noticed that a solemn mood hung over the restaurant with every eye focused on the TV. The war had started. The government had taken control of the internet and declared martial law. A curfew was implemented.

Over the next few weeks, our city was quiet. In a culture that doesn’t make eye contact as you walk down the street, we were suddenly met with icy stares of suspicion. Mistrust, left over from the Soviet era, made us suspects of carrying out a foreign agenda for the war. Armenian soldiers taped crosses to their uniforms. Close friends cross-examined us in terse conversations. Everyday our road was blocked as soldiers’ bodies were brought to the nearby cemetery. One day our team walked to the cemetery only to be overwhelmed by mothers weeping over newly buried graves, even as young men busily dug new ones. Within a few weeks the cemetery was full. Our next-door neighbor held a funeral for her son, a special operative in the war. While we played baseball with our children by the seaside, we watched as a missile was shot from our city in the direction of the war.

At some point during this season someone asked us, “What will it take for your family to leave?” At the beginning of our marriage my husband Zach and I decided we would always trust Jesus to lead our family. Period. There were no contingencies or back-up plans. He says, “Go,” and we follow no matter where the Spirit leads. That’s where we want to be. We can go to dark places because He is our light. We can take our family to dangerous places because He is our refuge. We can trust Him because of who He is, good.

At the beginning of the war the feeling on our team was heavy and tense. I remember feeling helpless. Our team began to pray, and God began to move. An opportunity with Convoy of Hope opened to partner with local believers to help families whose homes had been bombed. New relationships began to blossom with opportunities to share about Jesus. We had been studying the life of Jesus with Lila, a university student studying to be a doctor. She came to us with the desire to be baptized. Even though the weather was growing cold, she asked if we could baptize her in the Caspian Sea. She said, “Jesus is like a tree, and I am a little branch growing out from Him to the world.” God by His grace began leading our team to gems, to beautiful Azerbaijanis, who were hearing the good news for the first time. Even in one of the darkest hours, we saw hope. We see hope, and Jesus is near and moving.