Asya Vasiliev

January, 1982

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I don’t understand.

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“But I’m trying to,” I whisper up at the roof of the church, its wooden rafters far above me. A cold light filters through too-large spaces between rafters.

 

I came here to Moscow, leaving my home in the mountains to follow my brother and see my friend, yes — but also to lay down my life for the King. To learn to be willing.

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Now here I am. In a building that shouldn’t even be standing, yet is. Like me.

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Only three weeks ago, my brother, despite his connections within the police force due to his work, was arrested for clinging to the faith this torn-down church symbolizes. Friends managed to smuggle me inside to see him... and now the ache is all the less bearable because of what I saw.

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How was it that I could get in and out of a high-security prison undetected, and yet my brother, with all of his connections in the police, is still locked up inside, suffering unspeakable torture for his faith?

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I’d gladly pay that price for following my Lord. But this price, of being caught outside, unable to do anything except kneel on this dirt-covered floor and hope my whispered prayers are being heard?

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Wind whistles through chinks between worn-out wooden boards in the walls. The pews creak, empty. Pages of old hymnals scatter across the floor.

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I gather them all up into a stack, then walk to the front and place them on the pulpit. It still stands, front and center, ready to proclaim the truth.

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As I set the stack of wrinkled pages down, the Russian words on the top page flicker in my vision. Be Thou my vision… naught be all else to me, save that Thou art… the rest are smudged in dirt and faded ink.

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It’s a promise. Like so many I’ve found and learned to cling to, no matter how deep the ache or high the price. I can’t let go.

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I stare at the paper another moment, then lift it off the stack and kneel next to the front pew, lifting the paper toward Heaven and beginning to sing the words softly. There’s nothing else I can do.

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~*~

 

Grace-Lyn Travaño

January, 1982

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From far-off in the forest, I hear singing.

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Perhaps it is the wind that carries the melody to me, for it’s spoken softly. I can hear the ache and longing in the voice of the singer, however… and I recognize it.

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Asya came to Moscow three months ago with her older brother Fyodor, who worked in the Soviet police force while holding firmly to his faith and praying he would not be discovered. When he was reassigned here from their home in the mountains, he refused to leave her, and she him.

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Now, after aiding us in distributing Bibles, he has landed in prison, where their secret police friend has been forced to interrogate and question him daily, until hope of getting out has grown as slim as a thread. Asya needed somewhere to go, so my husband and I took her to a small home we had built in the woods. Then last week, I took her to the remains of our church and told her our story.

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Maybe in that story, we can all find hope.

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I make my way through the forest, careful not to disturb any brush that could leave signs of my path, until I reach the abandoned wooden church. Its steeple is cracked, and many of the boards are missing from the sides of the building. Sunlight catches one remaining pane of stained glass mounted above the entrance, where the front doors used to be.

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My husband Víctor and I led this church, once. Hundreds of miles from our home in Spain, yes, but we had felt the calling together to bring Light into the darkness. Here was one of those places, where a small gathering of believers who would make the trek from across the hills and valleys of Russia to join in worship despite the risk.

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Then the church was discovered by the Soviet secret police, the believers fled, and we were left with nothing but the clothes on our back and our hope in a Savior who would one day return to rescue His people from this darkness.

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We have traveled across Russia now, distributing Bibles to those — and they are many — who are in need of them. Bringing flickers of light into a cold, heavy night, hoping against hope that one day, we could live to see the church regather in this place.

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Yet it has not come to pass, yet. ​

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As I reach the front of the church, the quiet singing seems to grow stronger. Voicing the things I have longed for in not only this church, but the hearts of all those who believe.

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“Heart of my own heart, whatever befall…”

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I step into the back of the church, watching the small figure who kneels at the front. Her long auburn hair hangs down her back in gentle waves as she finishes the song and bows her head.

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Silence fills the church. Wind rustles through the boughs of trees outside, but in here… perfect stillness.

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I walk forward and kneel next to Asya, touching her shoulder. She starts. When she recognizes me, however, her shoulders slump. I put my arm around her and she leans against me.

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“Your singing was beautiful,” I say as I stare up toward the pulpit.

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Asya is quiet for a minute, then brushes her hair out of her face. “It’s all I have left, tetya. Fyo is gone, Lara won’t speak to me… and here I am.”

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“You came to the right place.”

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“I didn’t know where else to go.”

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I let her rest against me — these are times when she feels more like my own daughter than a co-worker — and touch the crumpled paper in her hands. “There is always a remnant. Sometimes all it is is a song, and that is what He gives us.”

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Asya stares at the paper for a long moment, then whispers, half-choked, “I need Him.”

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“We both do.”

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She closes her eyes, and as the silent tears streak down her cheeks, I find them on my own as well.

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Fading daylight flickers through a hole in the roof and glows on the floor around the pulpit. He sees. He hasn’t left us.

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I turn my face up to the sky, where the light is, and pray. “Please show Yourself faithful.”

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